


King Lindworm

by glasshibou



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, fairytale retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-11-04 14:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasshibou/pseuds/glasshibou
Summary: The Lindworm seeks a bride, and not just anybody will do... (A Labyrinth retelling)(crossposted)





	1. Chapter 1

Magic was a strange, wily thing. Even those cradled in it since birth found it unpredictable, and so the king and queen of the land monitored it very carefully. Rumors that the queen’s mother was a good fairy, or one of the huldrefolk, perpetuated because the queen was the one most frequently in contact with their nonhuman neighbors. She was the one to request communication or spearhead treaties with nonhuman neighbors or inhabitants, however clumsily she accomplished these tasks.

The king, however, preferred to discuss human treaties and human economics. He was much more comfortable with things he could understand and touch. Between the two of them, their reign was balanced and peaceful.

The peace was a relief to their people; the time that led up to the king’s ascension was marred by a bloody war of succession. The king and queen promised stability, and for many happy years, that promise was kept. Their subjects prospered. One very important miller moved into their land with his young wife. This is not to say that that the king or the queen knew about the miller or his wife; they were not, of course, omniscient. If they were, they might have known of the terrible war in the Goblin Kingdom. Goblins were not, by nature, very good at governing themselves.

Magic was also unpredictable, and goblins were mostly made of magic, after all. This meant that very few of them would be relied upon to lead their people. There were exceptions, of course. Those exceptions died in the war, cut down in bloody skirmishes. For a short time, the goblins remained quiet.

It wasn’t long before they boiled over into lands that were not theirs. The goblins got bored, and with no leader, they raided and threw raucous parties. Those living on the border of the goblins’ lands found their milk soured overnight or their chickens stolen. Magic leaked out and turned prized petunias plaid or gave the occasional dog the ability to speak. The human inhabitants often retaliated against their goblin counterparts, and sorrow struck both of the peoples. Both applied to the king and queen; the king, as he was wont to do, left the issue up to his wife.

The queen was known for her kindness and beauty, but perhaps not for her cleverness. She agreed to care for the goblins as her own people, and to appoint a leader as soon as a suitable one could be found. The raids and retaliations stopped, and every person the queen asked to lead the goblins refused. She was also frequently called to settle petty squabbles and soothe the tempers of her new goblin populace.

But the queen and her king had another problem. The war of succession was still fresh in everybody’s minds. Although most things were peaceful and beautiful for the moment, the specter of the past loomed over all of them. And the most damning thing of all promised trouble in the future: the king and queen had no heir.

This was not for any lack of love or effort. They both loved each other and their country very much, but no royal babe was born in the ten long years of their reign. The queen especially was hit very hard by this; she loved children and would have given almost anything for one of her own. Perhaps that is why she was better equipped to handle the goblins than other people. They had a childlike nature, but could not make up for the real thing, no matter how much she coddled them.

The queen frequently retreated into the palace’s chapel so that she might pray for a blessing, but it was not a blessing that found her. Not if a goblin witch could be considered a blessing, which the queen did not.

“My lady,” said the witch, curtsying as low as her bowed legs would let her. “Both kingdoms know of your plight. Please, allow me to soothe your pain.”

The queen gazed upon her goblin subject from over her clasped hands. The goblin witch stood just in front of the candles and idol positioned just under the oculus, where the queen frequently imagined her god so that she might better converse with them.

“Can you?” the queen asked, wiping a tear away. She knew that the people mourned with her; she had not imagined that the goblins were necessarily included. “Would you, truly? I thought no one in the whole world could help me.”

“I can, my lady, and I would, and I will,” the goblin answered, extending a paw. “Take this gift, and protect your kingdoms with it.” Within her paw was a silken drawstring bag, the smallest one the queen had ever seen. With trembling fingers, she reached out for it and loosened the strings.

“I know that one of my beloved subjects would not mock me,” the queen said, “but I must admit that I am confused. Please, explain to me what I am meant to do with two seeds.” She pulled the strings on the bag to shut it tightly, not noticing how the bag felt warm in her hand.

“My queen, if you plant these seeds in a place where they might taste the first dew of the morning and feel the last rays of the sun in the evening, in three days’ time you will have two roses: one red and one white. If you eat the red rose, a little boy will be born to you; if you eat the white rose, then a little girl will be delivered. However, pretty queen, you mustn’t eat both of the roses, or you will face terrible consequences.”

The queen looked down at the tiny bag in her hand, new hope blooming in her chest. If what the goblin witch said was true, she might have a child—an heir to the kingdom! And the goblins were the ones to know about magic, and the queen could not think that one of her subjects might tell her an untruth.

“Truly, I might have a child?” The queen gasped, now holding the bag over her heart.

“But you must only eat one of the roses, my queen. Remember: only one.”

The queen nodded and dabbed tears away from her eyes, but these were happy tears. The goblin witch permitted herself to be hugged and patted the queen on her head, waiting for the tears to end.

“Please, take this ring as a token of my gratitude,” the queen said, twisting a golden ring inset with one single ruby off her right hand. She held it out to the goblin witch, tears welling in her eyes when the witch made no move to take it.

“I could not, my queen; that was meant for your finger.” The witch was not used to finery and would not know what to do with the ring. She also did not feel she required payment for a service she offered freely; after all, the queen had saved her home from ruin and promised to deliver a suitable leader. Why should she not offer her something that she desired as well?

“If it was meant for my finger, then it is mine for me to do with as I wish. I wish for you to take it!” The queen pushed it into the goblin witch’s paw and closed her fingers around it. “Take it, please.”

The witch lowered her head and licked her lips.

“I will consider this a loan, and will make sure that I return it to you one day.”

The queen pouted and looked down at the little pouch of seeds in her hand. She wanted only to thank the witch in the best way she knew how, and was very put out that the witch refused.

“As you wish,” said the witch, who bowed low and waited for the queen to do something. Her job was done, and she thought it proper that she wait for her queen to give her permission to leave; she hadn’t requested an audience to begin with because she hadn’t remembered to do that. Goblins were not the best educated in court manners, and witches even less so.

The queen planted the rose seeds as instructed, treating them as the children she was promised. After the first day, she had two small rose bushes; after the second, each sprouted a single rosebud. On the third day, the promised roses arrived, one red, one white.

It was then that the queen was presented with a conundrum; which rose should she eat? The goblin witch promised a little girl if she ate the white one, but that little girl would eventually grow up and marry and move away. If she ate the red rose, then she would have a little boy. But that little boy would also grow up, and although she and her king worked to maintain peace, there was no telling what the future could hold. There might come a time that their son would be called away to war, and then he would be pulled from her. Worse still, he could die in battle and that separation would be far more permanent than a daughter moving away. The queen fretted over her decision and kept to her rooms for the rest of the day, weighing her options.

She didn’t dare consult her husband because she did not want to burden him with the same decision, and because she wanted to keep the magic at work a secret. It wasn’t that he was strictly opposed to magic, she reasoned with herself, it was just that he preferred not to deal with it. And as soon as she decided upon a rose and bore her son or daughter, he never would have to. More importantly, he’d never have to know.

The queen stared at the two roses outside of her window and sighed, reaching for her pruning blade. She needed to make a decision before the sun slipped below the horizon, for she felt that the magic in the roses would only last that long.

“What could it hurt to eat both of them?” The queen pondered aloud. Magic was unpredictable, after all; who was to say that anything bad would happen? She had only the word of one goblin witch, and goblins were creatures prone to mischief, weren’t they? And she was a queen without children, something that she found nigh unbearable. She herself had seven other siblings and thought that life as an only child would be terribly lonely. With that in mind, she plucked both roses from their stems, lifted them to her mouth, and swallowed them whole.

They were sweet. So sweet, in fact, that the queen thought she might have eaten more if she’d had any. But it was not to be; the witch only gave her two seeds, and so she ate two roses. For months she kept her secret even from her closest confidante. Only when she felt her womb quicken four months after she ate the roses did she tell her king that they were to have a child.

He was as exuberant as she, and he immediately called for the best doctors and midwives in the seven kingdoms. Most of them were in attendance to other queens or princesses or even duchesses; in the end, they were able to secure one doctor and two midwives. They were both assured that this was quite enough, and by the time the queen was ready to take to her chambers, everybody was quite satisfied.

In the chaos that securing a midwife had caused, the queen had almost forgotten about eating both of the roses. As the birth drew nearer and her stomach swelled larger than both of the midwives thought appropriate for just one child, she felt a strange sense of trepidation and excitement. She still neglected to mention the roses or the witch to her husband, but secretly hoped that she might have twins after all.

It wasn’t until she was so large she could barely move that she started having the dreams.

In them, a great, feathered beast roared and threatened to eat her child alive. She pled and screamed for mercy, but woke every morning just before witnessing the beast’s decision. The dreams left her shaken and sweating, although the doctor assured her that vivid dreams were natural in her condition. During her waking hours, the queen grieved for the small child and feared the feathered beast.

She didn’t have a word for it either, although the one that came closest was Lindworm. It was an old word, passed down from her mother’s mother, and meant to indicate a sort of dragon. The Lindworm in her dreams, however, had no scales. Instead, it was covered with glinting white feathers from snout to tail tip, and had impressively large wings. She felt certain that if it were to fly over the castle, it would block out the sun.

But thoughts of the Lindworm were put from her mind when her husband was called away from the castle to settle a dispute in a neighboring kingdom. It was not a war, and the queen sighed in relief for this, although she was concerned that he was called away so close to the birth. Instead of dwelling on it, she took to sitting in her future child’s nursery when she could slip away from her caretakers.

On the third day of her husband’s absence, the queen gave birth. In the end, it was a good thing that he was far, far away when it happened. Even the doctor couldn’t make it, as it was the middle of the night; he was too far away, and her labor moved too quickly. It was just as well; there was one less person who needed to be sworn to secrecy.  
The queen had two children. The second was a beautiful little girl, perfect in every visible way. In her heart, the queen knew that she would grow up to be brave and true. She did not regret eating the white rose.

The first child—if it could be called that—screeched through a deformed mouth that seemed far more like a beak than anything else. As the first midwife tended to the queen’s first child, the queen discovered that the regretted eating the red rose.

“I am sure it is just a skin condition, your majesty,” the first midwife said nervously, holding the infant as far away from her person as she could. In fact, she was not sure that it was a skin condition and not a terrible curse. The child’s skin glinted, still sticky and wet.

The queen sobbed into her hands. “It is no skin condition,” she said. “It’s a terrible beast and all my fault.” She knew that in time, it would grow feathers and turn into the Lindworm she saw in her dream the night before. One day, it might even attempt to harm her daughter.

“Take it away,” she ordered. “Tell no one of this. I had only one child, a daughter,” she ordered, smiling down at her perfect little girl. “But… please, see that it is cared for.” She would not let her misbegotten child die for her mistakes.

When the doctor arrived it was to an exhausted queen and one infant princess.


	2. Chapter 2

The princess grew up as most princesses must. She learned swordplay and diplomacy as easily as she did her stitching and dancing, and was as formidable a foe on the battlefield as she was across a chessboard. The king and the queen were very proud of their daughter, and the queen very rarely remembered her first child, the terrible Lindworm.

Because the Lindworm did indeed become a terror. When the princess—and, the queen supposed, the Lindworm—was ten, it was first sighted in the countryside. From there, news spread quickly until it reached the ears of the king and the queen. A hushed inquiry found that the midwife kept the beast and attempted to raise it as best she could, but she was old when he was born, and so she had passed away. It ate sheep and cows, but it left humans alone. Other than scaring them with its ferocity and size, it left the kingdom’s citizens largely unmarred. For many more years, the king and queen were able to happily ignore the Lindworm.

The start of the real trouble arrived when the king wanted to announce the princess as his heir apparent. She would inherit the kingdom when he decided it was time to step down, an idea which had very little opposition. In fact, no opposition was heard in the kingdom until the very day of her coronation. Just as the priest held up the circlet the would mark her as heir apparent, a great gust of wind blew it from his hands.

Her back was to the disturbance, but the princess saw the shadow fall over the assembly. The king drew his sword, and the queen went pale. Here was her dream shaken into reality, and she had warned nobody of the possibility.

Instead of striking her daughter down, the Lindworm opened his great maw and worked his jaw, trying to force words out through a mouth not designed for human speech.

“A kingdom for me before a kingdom for you!” he bellowed, sending those in the audience scurrying for cover. The princess groped for the dagger she wore at her side, and tried not to think that it was woefully inadequate for fighting off beasts.

“Who are you to offer such an insult?” she asked, holding her dagger steady. “Who are you to demand a kingdom?”

“A kingdom for me,” bellowed the Lindworm again, flexing his talons. It seemed to the queen that at any moment he might choose to tear apart her daughter, her perfect child. Tears in her eyes, she forced herself to stand and place herself between them.

“Return in three days’ time, Lindworm, and we will have an answer for you,” the queen said, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. They could find an answer in that time, she was sure of it; and, if not, then it would give their military enough time to prepare a defense.

The Lindworm inclined his head once and took to the skies with a flutter of feathers.

“Mother,” the princess protested once everything was cleaned up and put away. It was decided that her coronation could not continue without risking further interference from the Lindworm. “Mother, why would you promise something like that?”

The queen wept into her hands, as she had done ever since she made her promise, and could give neither her daughter nor her husband an excuse.

“I suppose we could offer a reward for the beast’s head,” the king mused. The queen screamed and placed her hands over her mouth. She made her husband promise not to kill the Lindworm, but could not confess the truth as to why he couldn’t.

“He is somebody’s child,” she said, sounding mournful. The princess threw her hands up into the air and scoffed.

“Then we might as well give him the goblin kingdom, mother! If he demands a kingdom, he might have that one.” She meant in in jest, although she did not truly wish to rule over the goblins as her mother did. Still, she did not like the hopeful gleam in her mother’s eye at her words.

“Yes, daughter, I think that is a marvelous idea.”

“You cannot be serious, darling,” the king said. “I know of your promise to the goblins, but do you truly think that this Lindworm will be a suitable governor?”

But it turned out that the queen was serious, and when the Lindworm returned he was crowned as King of the Goblin Kingdom. The princess was very unhappy that this occurred during her own coronation as heir apparent, but her mother would accept nothing else. The newly crowned king did not stay for the feast, choosing instead to fly directly to his kingdom.

The king, queen, and heir all hoped that was the last time they would see him, but it was not to be. While the princess learned of her duties as an heir, the Lindworm was learning of his as a king. Contact became less and less frequent between the two kingdoms, and the humans living on the border found it almost suspicious. However, nobody was quite concerned enough or willing to venture into the goblin kingdom to see If anything was wrong.

When the princess turned twenty-one, she began to think of love. It wasn’t forefront in her mind until she accompanied her father on a visit to their neighbor’s and met that kingdom’s princess. The two fell quickly in love and their parents, seeing the benefit a strengthened alliance would bring, quickly drafted a marriage contract. The other kingdom had three other children in line for the throne; they could spare one princess, and the Lindworm’s sister was happy to have her.

The wedding was meant to happen when they all got back to the first kingdom, but as they crossed the borders, the Lindworm struck again.

“A bride for me before a bride for you!” he growled. “She must go back.”

“I love her,” the heiress argued, brandishing her sword. She felt better prepared this time, and the actual Lindworm did not seem as large as the one in her memory. This time, she felt confident she could take him. “I love her, and who are you to make such a demand?”

“Ask our mother,” the Lindworm snarled, and the princess almost dropped her sword. She did not get the chance to ask what the beast meant, for in the next moment he carried away her bride’s carriage. There was no use giving chase, although the princess longed for it; the beast was too fast, and could cover too much ground.  
But not all was lost; four days later, the fastest courier delivered the news that the carriage and its inhabitants were deposited safely where they had come from. The princess was relieved but angered anew.

The queen had avoided her daughter ever since she discovered what happened during the journey, but she could not evade her forever. When the princess finally cornered the queen, the queen knew all hope of keeping her terrible secret was lost and that she would have to finally confess.

“He said that you were our mother,” the princess said, crossing her arms. “But that cannot be possible. I am an only child, and besides…”

She didn’t feel the need to say that the Lindworm wasn’t exactly human, as her mother looked ill enough already. The queen didn’t need to be subjected to such cruel rumors.

“Summon your father,” the queen said weakly, “and I will tell you both the truth.”

The king was summoned to a small, cramped room where they would not be overheard. The queen related her tale, sparing no details. She told her husband and daughter of the goblin witch, of the roses, and her terrible, arrogant mistake all those years ago. And she also confessed that the Lindworm was the eldest of the two twins, and should, by rights, be married first.  
For the first time since she was a very small child, the princess felt tears well in her eyes. The king remained where he sat, shocked into silence by his queen. For her part, the queen felt much better after revealing her secret. She had no delusions that they might all be a happy family—the Lindworm was still a beast, after all—but she no longer had to lie.

“I suppose we’d better find him a bride, then,” the princess said sullenly. “I do not wish to be separated from my love for too long.”

“What a grand idea, daughter. I am so pleased that you agree,” the queen said. She wanted nothing more than for both of her children, human and beast like, to be happily married.

And so a call was put out for any available princesses. Great care was taken to disguise the nature of their suitor, and no demands were named in regard to beauty or accomplishment. The Lindworm had only specified a bride, after all, and who was to say he understood human concepts of beauty? Plus, it would widen their search considerably.

A princess was found, and the Lindworm was summoned for his wedding day. Her veil was thick and heavy, meant to obscure her view as much as it was to obscure the view of her, and the ceremony was performed on the border of the Goblin Kingdom. Shen she lifted her veil, hands trembling, she screamed and fainted dead away.

The Lindworm growled and carried her off in his talons, but for several days all was silent in the kingdoms. The princess released a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and set out to find her own bride. Surely, now that he was married, the Lindworm could not make the same demands.

The princess set out with her guards to collect her fiancée, but was met at a crossroads by a familiar feathered beast.

“A bride for me before a bride for you,” he demanded.

“None of this, now,” complained the princess. “You have your bride. It is not my fault if she displeases you.”

This seemed only to provoke the Lindworm’s ire, and he roared at his sister until she relented. When she returned to her castle dejected and utterly humiliated, another call was sent out for another princess.

This one was still more difficult to find, as many people wondered what, exactly, happened to the first. Neither the king nor his heir could answer to this because neither knew, although they suspected the worst. The princess remembered his sharp beak, which seemed more than capable of rending flesh. Several weeks passed and the search was fruitless.

But a second princess was found, and this time it was agreed that she would not take her veil off until she was safely deposited in the Lindworm’s castle. She seemed of sturdy stock—very barely a princess, if the truth must be told—and less likely to faint than the last.

At last, at last, thought the princess, I might collect my bride. She set out again, with the same group of guards and a wedding present for her reviled brother, should she meet him on the road again. This time, the princess got closer to her fiancée than before, but still, the Lindworm stood in her way and would not let her pass.

“Not this again,” she groaned when she saw his form swooping down from the sky.

“A bride for me before a bride for you,” the Lindworm confirmed, snapping his jaws. The princess screamed her rage at him, but returned home empty handed all the same. She begged her father and mother to find the Lindworm a new bride, for it had been months since she last saw her own. The same calls were put out, and when nobody responded they were put out again. The second time, they did not demand a princess. A marchioness, or perhaps even a viscountess would be respectable enough, surely.

But the nobility had heard the rumors, and the rumors had a long reach. Nobody was willing to relinquish a daughter to the grasp of the Lindworm, and so the princess sank into a deepening despair. Who would want to marry the Lindworm?

Finally, a reward was offered, and a young baroness offered her hand in marriage. Her family was poor, but she was beautiful and more brave than even the last princess. She felt confident that the stories were exaggerated because she also had a kind heart. The reward gold certainly made her more compliant as well.

But like the previous two princesses, the baroness was married to the Lindworm and then not seen again. And like her previous attempts to reclaim her fiancée, the princess was turned away once again. “A bride for me before a bride for you” started to haunt her dreams, and her hatred for her brother only deepened with her grief.

The king tried one more time to find a bride—any bride—for the Lindworm. The nations he had previously been friendly with were now suspicious of him, and the kingdom of the second princess threatened retaliation if she was not returned.

Truly, it seemed that all would be lost.


	3. Chapter 3

From the time she was very small, Sarah Williams knew she would inherit her father’s mill. She took it seriously, even if running a mill wasn’t exactly her dream; after all, her father—and her mother, when she was still alive—invested everything in the mill. And in her.

Sarah had been afforded luxuries few other young women in her standing could claim. She knew all of her letters and could read well enough to enchant the younger children with her pilfered storybooks. The expensive schooling her parents sunk their money into taught her sums and awakened a new love for numbers within her. It was for this reason Sarah primarily dealt with the mill’s finances.

For a small town right up against the border to the Goblin Kingdom, it saw a lot of traffic. The inn was frequently full, and when guests left their books and never returned to reclaim them, Maya, the innkeeper’s daughter and notorious gossip, let Sarah know. Although she couldn’t remove the books from the inn in case their owners came back, Sarah still took advantage of them.

It was with Maya that Sarah had expected to spend the rest of her day after chores. Maya was torn between two suitors and wanted Sarah’s help in casting apple skins to see which one she should think of marrying. Sarah knew it wouldn’t have gotten anybody anywhere, of course; the innkeeper’s daughter was a notorious romantic, and couldn’t make her mind up one way or the other from month to month. If she ever married, it would be the prevailing gossip among all of their friends for month.

And Sarah knew that if she ever married, it would be the talk of the town. This wasn’t from conceit; she was a clever young woman and knew how people discussed her. She knew that they found her perhaps a bit unnatural, with her voracious book reading and how she kept the accounts of the mill instead of her father. And she always turned down the few suitors that appeared on her doorstep, even though Sarah knew her stepmother was anxious to see her at least show some interest. It was one thing to have a stepdaughter who was clever with numbers, but it was another thing entirely to have a stepdaughter who would not marry.

It wasn’t that Sarah saw herself never getting married or found the idea completely abhorrent, but she certainly didn’t spend any time thinking about actually getting married. She was far more interested in the books left at the inn or balancing the mill’s and her family’s accounts, or even wandering as far into the forest as she dared to go. She’d fallen in love with it ever since the Lindworm King stole his last bride. Although she hadn’t made it for the last wedding—the king and queen discouraged visitors, but couldn’t actively keep people away for fear of upsetting the Lindworm—she’d visited the spot afterward and stared up at the tall trees. Their daughter’s curiosity terrified Sarah’s parents, who were convinced that something terrible would befall her.

She didn’t think of how scared the last bride had to have been, or even how she’d screamed as she was stolen away in his talons as the villagers whispered--Sarah wondered how they knew this, since everybody but the wedding party had been gently barred entry. Every now and then Sarah wondered if she’d be torn away from everything she knew as well, but she wouldn’t even have the consolation title of princess or baroness to grace her family with. Instead, she stared up at the very tops of the ancient trees and wondered what history they might have seen. Did they know how the ancient people lived their lives? Could they tell her if the huldrefolk really walked the earth at some point?

When the clouds covered the sky and the wind barreled through the trees in the direction of the Goblin Kingdom, Sarah wondered if they could possibly explain to her how the Lindworm came to be in the first place. None of her books could say, and there were too many contradicting rumors for her to ferret out the truth.

But those thoughts never lasted too long. Maya would pull her out of them with a new book, or a new suitor, or her parents asked her to watch little Toby, or there was the endless amount of work to do around the mill. It was Toby that kept her from those thoughts—and Maya—today. Or rather, it was her stepmother.

Sarah’s stepmother apprehended her as she tried to sneak out of their house. Muffet, their trusty delivery horse, threw a shoe earlier in the day and needed to be taken to the farrier in the next town. Toby couldn’t be taken along, and taking Muffet was a job that required at least two people. Sarah’s father and stepmother were going to take the horse, so she had to stay with the baby. She didn’t even to try say that she was planning on meeting Maya later because it would do no good. Toby was going to take up the rest of her day, and it would be well into the evening when their parents returned.

Sarah moped away from the careful view of her parents while they readied everything to leave. When the shouted reminders--”mind that Toby doesn’t get too close to the mill, Sarah”, “remember that he will be sleeping for another hour, Sarah”--died down, she crept into her parents’ room and watched her baby brother sleep. He looked peaceful, but Sarah knew that was a lie; he was often as ornery as Muffet was, and minding her infant brother was often the least favorite part of Sarah’s day. As if he could read her thoughts, Toby woke and immediately started wailing.

“No crying, Toby,” she said as she lifted him up, bouncing him. “Mother and father will be home later. Until then, it’s just you and me.”

Toby wailed louder.

“Yeah, me too,” said Sarah with a sigh. “What should we do today? We can’t go to the inn, and we can’t stay here because you’re such a little rascal… Perhaps the forest?” They would be safe at the very fringe of it, the area that was closest to the town. And what made the location even better was that it was easy to play in, and Toby was loathe to leave her side. She wouldn’t have to worry about him crawling off and getting lost.

“Yes,” she decided. “That sounds nice.” Toby burbled at her from where she placed him on the floor. She gathered the last half of the bread that was about to go stale, as well as the little chunk of cheese she found in the larder. There was a well on the way where she could fill up three of the leather flasks she found, and Toby could suck on some of the dried fruit. Sarah nodded at what she gathered, considering that job largely done, and wrapped it all up in a picnic cloth.

Sarah carried Toby against her side with one arm, while her bundle of food was safely nestled in the other. The addition of the full water flasks after their brief stop by the well made things a little more difficult, but they managed; before the sun marked too far past noon in the sky, they were in the forest.

Toby, as always, was silent for the first hour. The sudden change in surroundings always made him quiet and shy; they were both used to fields of wheat or open, flat ground, not the tall, pillar-like trees. If Sarah had been the sort to be very religious, she might have compared the forest to a church.

Except… there was always the looming threat of the Goblin Kingdom on the other side of the forest. She grew up hearing stories of the goblins—everybody had—but she’d never actually met a goblin before. They existed mostly as warnings: “be good or the goblins will come and take you away.” And if a child really misbehaved, they might be threatened with a warning that they’d better “be good or King Lindworm will come and gobble you up!”

Now that she was older, Sarah knew the warnings for what they were. She also believed that the warning about the goblins held more truth than that of the lindworm. There were simply more of them, after all, and the lindworm only seemed to be interested in princesses… or the occasional baroness.

Toby played with a few fresh oak leaves Sarah yanked off the trees for him while she tied their bag of food up into a tree so animals couldn’t get to it as easily.

_This would have been better with a book,_ she thought, pouting. Toby could be amused enough with leaves and sticks, and while she enjoyed the scenery, there wasn’t much else for her to do but to either flip through her journal or try to watch as the sun passed through the sky above through tree branches. She couldn’t even write in her journal because ink was messy to bring anywhere, and too costly to risk wasting. It was spring, and the harvests wouldn’t be in for a little while, so they had to watch their money carefully. Frivolous ink purchases were not in the budget.

Perhaps she could nap, knowing that Toby wouldn’t stray too far. Sarah closed her eyes and allowed herself to breathe deeply. It was nice and warm, but not hot, and she could hear Toby playing just beside her. If she reached out, she could touch him; he hadn’t moved from where she placed him as soon as she found the tiny clearing they always came to. It was peaceful. Quiet, even, which she never got around the mill. If only it could be like this for a little longer, then…

A branch snapped, not too far away. In an instant, Sarah was up and Toby was in her arms, twigs and leaves forced out of his hands by her sudden movement. All at once the silence was broken by his piercing wails.

“Who are you?” Sarah asked, clutching her little brother to her. His wailing rang in her ears, but she’d rather have him squealing than taken by… whatever it was standing in front of her.

“I am but a poor travelling woman,” said the crone in front of her. Lank grey hair hung in front of her haggard face, and she stooped over as if carrying something heavy on her back. Sarah looked her up and down and doubted that she could do anything to hurt either of them.

“I smelled your food and wondered if I might partake of it with you,” she continued, motioning up to the bag Sarah suspended from the tree. Sarah’s gaze followed her hand motion to the bundle, which hung motionless in the branches. At the same time, Sarah realized that she was quite hungry, and a late lunch might be a good thing.

“Of course,” she said, remembering and ignoring all of the warnings given to her as a child about talking to strangers. Sarah placed Toby down on the ground and, reunited with his makeshift toys, he quieted down. The bag was easier to get down than it was to put up, and Sarah pulled out the knife she slipped into it and sliced the bread and cheese for herself and the woman.

“Here,” she said, handing over a few sliced of each and a water flask. “I hope that’s enough; I didn’t know I’d be meeting anybody else out here, you see.”

The woman took both with a grateful smile and ate faster than anybody Sarah had ever seen before. Sarah tried not to watch and quietly ate her own bread and cheese. In between mouthfuls, she took sips of water. The bread hadn’t been quite as fresh as she thought it was, she realized sadly.

“Sorry about the bread,” Sarah eventually said. “I knew that it needed eating, but…” A blush crept across her face. Imagine, a miller’s daughter not having fresh bread!

“You’re a good girl,” said the woman, who reached out and patted her hands. “You deserve good things. I’m afraid that all I have for your hospitality is this.” From somewhere behind her—perhaps a hidden pocket? Sarah wondered—she pulled out a small stuffed bear, hardly larger than Sarah’s hand. “Your brother should have something besides leaves to play with.”

Sarah felt her cheeks heat up even more. “You’re right,” she admitted, taking the teddy bear from the woman’s hands. It was finely made, for the most part, with tiny stitches that seemed almost too small for a human hand to have created. In other places they were large and sloppy, as if more than one person had a hand in its creation. Sarah furrowed her brow and traced her finger over one of these sections, wondering.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up. But the woman was gone, vanished into the woods as suddenly as she’d arrived. Sarah looked down at the little bear again and shrugged before handing it off to Toby. He was a curious child, and Sarah couldn’t recall him ever having a teddy bear before. He’d like it well enough, she was sure, even if Sarah would be questioned about where it came from later. It was a small price to pay for his amusement.

Sarah was right; Toby liked the little bear. More than anything, he liked gnawing on its limbs, which she supposed were the hardest parts of it. He still had the last of his teeth coming in, and she thought she was lucky he hadn’t thought to chew on any sticks. She did not relish the idea of trying to pry splinters from a wailing infant’s mouth.  
Not for the first time, Sarah realized she was perhaps not the most appropriate person to take care of a child.

Sarah turned her back so that she could shake the crumbs out of the picnic cloth and wipe off the knife while Toby cooed contentedly behind her. The forest had been a good idea, if not well thought out, she decided. And maybe, if Toby tired himself out early enough, she could even stop by the inn and see if any new books had been left on her way home. Maya wouldn’t mind her little brother if he was asleep.

While Toby entertained himself with the bear, Sarah entertained herself by making crown after crown of what flowers and suitable leaves she could find. Eventually she had a few piled up beside her, and when she’d built up a selection, she picked the finest one for herself to wear, adorned with speedwell and willowherb blooms. Although she was well past the age of playing childish games with friends, every now and then when she was alone with Toby, she gave in and fell back on her own favorite. Late spring or summer was best for pretending to be a fairy princess because that was when Sarah’s favorite sorts of flowers were in bloom.

Sarah was in the middle of selecting a smaller one for Toby to wear when his shrieks pierced the air again.

“Toby!” she gasped, startled. “I swear; no other child can scream as much as you can.” Sarah turned to him, flower and leaf crown still in hand, to see that he somehow managed to separate one of the little bear’s legs from the rest of its body. It was one of the areas that had been hastily stitched, so she wasn’t surprised it hadn’t tolerated her younger brother’s abuse. Sarah tried to placate him with the crown, but he wasn’t interested; no matter what she did, he still cried for the bear.

Sarah scooped him up and tried to tickle him, but nothing could stop the flood of angry tears. Watching him hadn’t been so bad, today, but Sarah was quickly growing tired of it. Her father and stepmother had been leaving him with her more and more frequently, which Sarah did not appreciate. They, not her, were his parents, and she did not appreciate being placed into the role of his surrogate mother. And today he’d been screaming or crying on and off.

“Toby, stop it!” Sarah hissed, trying to placate him through soft bounces as she did before. “Stop it, or I’ll… I’ll call the goblins to come and take you away. Then you’ll have more problems than a broken toy.” Her threats were empty; not even she believed that the goblins would come to take away her squalling brother. But that didn’t stop the headache from blooming in her head.

And if their parents didn’t come back with Muffet taken care of, or if something else came up, tomorrow would be more of the same. Only _then_ , she’d have to take care of the mill all by herself with a squalling baby. That had happened only once before, when her father fell ill and her stepmother didn’t feel it was something that they could handle at home. She took him to the healer, and only checked in on Sarah and Toby every now and then for a few days until Sarah’s father was feeling better. True, his fever had been frightening. And true, Sarah doubted that even if they couldn’t get Muffet sorted out today that they’d be gone for days… But the thought of being alone with a crying baby for that long again almost set her to tears.

“I’d rather marry King Lindworm than take care of you for much longer,” Sarah said, truly feeling her sudden words. The only reason she actually voiced her thoughts was because she was certain their parents would be home soon. She could cling to hope; it was only dread that reminded her of the slim chance they wouldn’t be.

But Sarah should have remembered that she was closer to the Goblin Kingdom than most of her neighbors would have ever dared approach, and she should have remembered that something was always, always listening. Sometimes the thing listening happened to be the trees, or the wind.

The thing listening this time just happened to be a goblin, tiny and covered in dark, shimmering feathers. It didn’t have a name, like some of its kind didn’t have a name, but it had a purpose. The goblin sped away from the young woman and the squalling child back to its king. Goblins had their own sort of magic, the sort that had terrorized Sarah’s neighbors not too long ago, that this goblin utilized to appear before its king in the blink of an eye and the swish of a feathery tail.

This goblin had three eyes; two were for seeing, and the third was for sharing. It was this third eye that it pried out of its skull with a sickening squelch and offered to its king.

“A princess has been found,” said the goblin. It should be said that the goblins knew goblin things, but they were woefully misinformed when it came to human things. This goblin in particular never could quite understand that not every young human woman it might chance across could not be a princess, but it did know that its king was in search of one. And the king often got what the king wanted, or the king would be unhappy.

The Lindworm opened his mouth, which received the goblin’s third eye. As soon as the eye dissolved on his tongue, the Lindworm saw the scene the goblin had imprinted onto it. Of course, the Lindworm knew that not every human woman was a princess, but he also knew that his mother and father would never find him a princess. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened to the others because he couldn’t quite recall, but he knew that they displeased him.

He also knew that this young woman looked like she might please him, sour face and harsh words included. After all, had she not proposed to him? It was unorthodox, of course, but he was certain that she would willingly marry him if he could just release her of her burden.

The Lindworm took to his wings instantly, knowing the exact patch of forest the eye showed him. When he arrived, the girl wasn’t there; he growled and cast his gaze around. If she escaped after her proposal, he would be incredibly displeased.

Sarah, just out of the forest and on her way back home, heard the growl ripple through the air. Her first thought was not of the Lindworm, as it seldom was. Instead, she wondered if the bearshad woken from their winter hibernation already. Her second thought, when she caught sight of the Lindworm in the sky, was an expletive.

She didn’t dare move in case he hadn’t seen her yet, but that hope was dashed when she saw him twisting through the sky in her exact direction. Her knees shook, and she clutched Toby close to her. The infant had at least stopped crying, most likely shocked into silence as his older sister was by the beast looming over them.

The Lindworm landed with a thump in front of her, and Sarah wondered if he could eat her in one bite or two.

“Hello,” she offered weakly, wondering if she should attempt a curtsy or not. She decided against it; with Toby and a bag in her arms, it could only be sloppy and result in embarrassment. And maybe disembowelment.

“You proposed,” said the Lindworm, leaning closer to her. Sarah had to crane her neck to try and look him in the eyes, all the while still wondering what courtesies she should offer to him. When his words registered with her, she had to fight a startled laugh. Instead, her mouth went dry.

“Did I?” she asked, her voice more of a whisper. “I’m… I’m afraid I don’t quite remember.”

“Irrelevant,” he said as Sarah wondered how, exactly, he spoke. His mouth simply didn’t look _normal_. “You proposed, and I accept. Our marriage will also ensure that you no longer have to care for the child.”

Sarah’s mouth fell open as she realized what he must have—somehow—overheard. But how did one correct the Lindworm when he was so intent on having a bride?

“I’m afraid… I’m afraid, your majesty, that a marriage to me would be incredibly inappropriate,” Sarah said, willing her voice to remain steady. “You see, I am not a princess. I am a simple miller’s daughter; I could not marry a king!”

It was a solid argument, she thought, as far as desperate attempts went. Nobody could hope to argue that a miller’s daughter could possibly be compatible with a king. However, Sarah had never met anybody quite like the Lindworm before, and neglected to consider that he might be as stubborn as she.

“Irrelevant,” he said again. “I am a king, as you say, and so nobody will oppose my choice for a wife. I choose you, little miller’s daughter.”

I _might oppose your choice,_ thought Sarah sourly. Toby hiccuped, beside her, and his quiet noise brought her back to herself and away from her indignant thoughts. She had to tread carefully, or they both might end up as the Lindworm’s evening meal.

“Well then, King Lindworm, you must admit that this is happening rather suddenly, yes? It would be… It would be a huge change for me, and I would like some time to think on it. You see, I did not imagine that somebody as great as you might have heard me.” As long as she could appease him with pretty words and promises she had no intention of keeping, she might escape completely unscathed. She couldn’t count on him taking pity because he wanted her for a bride—his mysteriously missing wives attested to that, at least.

“I accept, little miller’s daughter, and I will give you one boon before our wedding. I will care for the child so that you might be free.”

His words fell upon her like she thought a guillotine might, and she almost wished for the guillotine. Before she could protest, goblins burst from all around him, and no matter how tightly she tried to cling to Toby, the goblins were somehow stronger. In what felt like an instant, Toby was pried out of her grasp. A lone goblin grabbed her hand a jammed a ring onto it, making Sarah cry out in pain. It fit, but clearly goblins were not accustomed to putting on jewelry. Sarah found that was the least of her problems.

“That ring will bring you to me,” informed the Lindworm, “when your decision is made. Until then, I will keep the child.”

And then she was being buffeted by the wind and staring up into a darkening sky, watching her little brother being carried away by the Goblin King and his goblins. This time, Sarah really did swear, and she let herself cry freely. One silly, selfish threat had somehow been heard by King Lindworm himself, and he chose to see it as a proposal!  
The fact that he was clever enough to hold Toby hostage while she “made up her mind” was not lost on her, either. She stewed on this as she stormed back home and wrote a note telling her parents that Toby was asleep and she was going to bed. If they got home that evening, they would not look for either of their children. They wouldn’t even know Toby was gone until she got him back, Sarah determined. And then, years later when her knees stopped shaking, they could all laugh about it. Maybe.

Sarah curled up on her bed and tried to think of solutions, but her brain was still caught up in the panic seeing the Lindworm in the flesh brought. And Toby, poor, innocent little Toby was somewhere, probably in that goblin castle, with a beast. A beast who probably ate princesses, so Sarah could only imagine what would happen to her baby brother. Surely, one princess’s life was more than a common infant’s? She tried not to think that way, but couldn’t quite stop herself.

Eventually her tears stopped, and she found herself exhausted. No matter how many different scenarios she tried to dream up, they all ended in one way; she would have to go into the goblin kingdom and face the Lindworm. Perhaps, somehow, she could convince him to let them both go, but she didn’t think it was likely. He was stubborn and willful, clearly; even the ring refused to leave her finger.

She crept out to where she left her old note, although her parents still hadn’t returned. With the tip of the quill, she scratched out what she wrote before and instead scrawled I will get him back at the bottom of the scrap of paper. Sarah tugged the flower crown off of her head and used the wilting flowers to hold the note down.  
_Deep breaths, Sarah,_ she told herself, shutting the door to their home behind her. _Deep breaths, and one way or another, this will all be over soon._  
With one look up at the now dark sky, Sarah twisted the ring around her finger.

“Take me to him,” she ordered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following original author's note taken in its entirety from FFN.
> 
> First, I would like to simultaneously thank everybody for the kind reviews and apologize for the following lengthy author's note. I'd also like to apologize for the lack of review responses on my end. I don't typically do what I'm about to do, here.
> 
> Before I dive into the meat of this author's note, I'd like to make it clear that I welcome and am appreciative of constructive criticism. What I do not appreciate is hate mail or homophobic comments. I had reasons for writing this all the way I did, whether they be fixing what I saw as a plot hole in the source material or creating media in which I could see myself. The Lindworm's sister being a lesbian has absolutely nothing to do with me being forced to be "politically correct." Nor does it have anything to do with her somehow being corrupted by magic, her being a blight upon the land (?) or any of the other comments I received. The number of people willing to completely accept that eating a flower can somehow result in pregnancy, or willing to suspend their disbelief long enough to believe in a rampaging dragon-thing while at the same time being unwilling to accept the mere mention of two women in a happy relationship with each other, or to call it unrealistic astounds me, frankly. I am disappointed.
> 
> Moreover, this experience has made me apprehensive to post anything else. Those who were bothered by two lesbian side characters in King Lindworm will not like what I had planned for Fate, Unwound. If publishing Fate, Unwound garners the same response as the previous chapter in this story, then it makes me rethink continuing to write Fate at all. I don't write any of this note to throw myself a pity party, nor do I expect it from anybody else. At the same time, those of you who sent those messages, please realize that all of this is provided to you for free-regardless of the quality.
> 
> Going forward, I will be even less tolerant of such actions than I have been up until now. I don't want to, but I will revoke the privileges of guest reviews. I will close my inbox. I will start blocking people.
> 
> Those of you who did none of the above may ignore this overly long message. See you in the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

She didn't give much thought to the absurdity of giving a ring, of all things, a command; but then again, she didn't have much time to. As soon as Sarah closed her mouth around the last word, the world crumbled under her feet, and the sky crashed down. Sarah had just enough time to wonder if she'd inadvertently managed to kill herself before everything righted itself again.

The first thing she saw of the Goblin Kingdom was the ground she threw herself onto in a desperate attempt to orient herself. It was slightly damp and dark and overall, much like the earth she knew at home. In fact, she wouldn't have thought she'd moved at all if the earth outside her house hadn't been covered in grass. This earth was bald.

And then she looked up, and really wished she hadn't. All through her childhood, Sarah heard about how dangerous the goblins—and, later, their king—could be. She was told about how they stole animals in the dead of night or could spirit children away, right out from under their parents' noses. She read that they were chaotic, that they couldn't be constrained by anything so ordered as human logic. But, she realized, staring up at the stalls and storefronts, it wasn't all that different from the village's marketplace. Sarah had time to notice that the wares were a little different before she realized that she was the odd thing.

Unless, of course, gasping miller's daughters suddenly appearing were a common occurrence, which Sarah doubted. Determined not to draw too much attention to herself, Sarah picked herself up and dusted the dirt off her front. She smiled at the goblin nearest to her, nodded once, and then set off toward what looked like the spires of a castle. If the king would be anywhere, he would be there, she decided. Even though he was feathered, he was still a king.

But the city was made up of twists and turns, and Sarah soon found herself almost exactly where she started. Perhaps it was the dark, and the way the identical lanterns bobbed above her head, but Sarah couldn't seem to figure out a path that would take her to the castle.

"Excuse me," she said nervously, sidling up to the nicest-looking goblin she could find. "But I need to speak to your king, and I can't quite seem to find my way to the castle."

The goblin, who seemed to be selling scarves made of glistening spider webs, looked her up and down. Humans were not a common sight, let alone human women appearing out of thin air and requesting to speak with their king. She didn't even look like a princess, thought the goblin, although he'd only ever seen one human princess before.

"I have this, if it helps," Sarah added, thrusting her hand under the goblin's nose. In the light from the lanterns above them, the ruby glistened. The goblin grunted and grabbed her hand, bringing it far too close to its face for Sarah's liking. Eventually, the goblin released her.

"That's a fine ring, so's I s'ppose you _are_ a princess." The goblin rubbed its chin as if accustomed to having a beard.

Sarah opened her mouth to correct the goblin, but then thought better of it. Once Toby was safe at home, it wouldn't really matter if one goblin in the middle of the Goblin City thought she was a princess, would it? Instead, she shrugged.

"Well, then I s'ppose that I can take you to the castle," the goblin said, almost to himself. "It's 'bout time to pack in for the night, anyway. S'ppose it can't hurt." Before Sarah could thank him, he tugged on a rope which brought the front of the stall—Sarah had assumed it was a small roof for customers to stand under—crashing down. After she realized he _wasn't_ trying to behead her, Sarah thought it was a rather neat way of closing up shop.

"Do the gob—do you always have a nighttime marketplace?" Asked Sarah, who was desperate for a topic of conversation. The goblin didn't walk too quickly for her to keep up, but he kept sneaking glances at her as if he was waiting for her to do something. She didn't know what he was expecting, and Sarah peevishly thought that if she was doing something wrong, he could at least have the good grace to let her know.

"Course," the goblin said, as if she should have known better. "Else how would the nighttime creatures buy anything?"

"Ah," she said, stealing glances around her. _What_ nighttime creatures? The castle was sure to hold her brother and the Lindworm, but at least they weren't _complete_ unknowns. She wanted to get there now more than ever. "That does make sense."

"Don't your kind have night markets?"

"No," said Sarah. "I don't expect so, unless they're in very big cities. Most people in my village stay inside when it gets dark." _Because of the goblins,_ Sarah added mentally. She stared up at the lanterns, wondering what held them up. Perhaps they were suspended by a rope she couldn't see? But they all seemed to bob in the air independently of each other, and she doubted a rope would allow such movement. They threw a clear, bright light, too, unlike the flames that Sarah was used to. They would be excellent to read by, if she could convince somebody to part with one if— _when,_ she reminded herself—she got home.

Her goblin guide helped her wind through the streets until she stood right outside of the castle. The doors were as tall as some of the trees in the forest, she was sure, and had to take several goblins to open. She almost asked how they would be opened when she noticed her guide was whispering to one of the guards. Sarah's heart immediately sunk—was she in trouble? If she was, she couldn't figure out what she'd done.

"Show 'em the ring," said the goblin, and Sarah rushed to do so. The guard nodded once, and with one single tap, swung the door open. Sarah gaped. Surely there was some magic involved; a single goblin couldn't have casually swung open a door easily three times her height.

But as she was pushed through, she had to finally conclude that it seemed to be the case. She couldn't catch sight of any pulley system on either side, and she had ample time to look for a counterweight after the door was slammed shut in her face. Sarah stared at the closed door and wondered what she was meant to do now.

The fear she hadn't really felt while walking through the brightly-lit city welled in her, and she would have given almost anything to see a familiar face. Unfortunately, the castle seemed to be filled with unfamiliar goblins. Her arrival seemed to have kicked off a flurry of activity; Sarah couldn't imagine it being this busy all of the time.

She stood, back against the door, hoping she was out of the way. Most of the goblins didn't spare her more than a glance, but eventually one tapped her on her hand.

"If it would please you, miss, the king is waiting for you in the gardens." The goblin grabbed her hand and gave her a gentle tug away from the door Sarah was starting to consider her save haven. Sarah had to bite her tongue so she wouldn't say that it did _not_ please her at all; the goblin was only doing their job, and there was no reason to make it more difficult.

"Alright," she said instead, shuffling her feet to keep up with the goblin's slow pace. Despite their slow movement, it felt like Sarah was deposited in the gardens within seconds. And there, under more of the strange, floating lanterns, was the Lindworm. The goblin vanished from her side, and Sarah found herself alone with the beast.

"I want to see my brother," she said, hearing the words tumble out of her own mouth, unbidden. "I came here, as promised, so I would like to see him." She twisted the magical ring around her finger, no longer trying to pull it off. It wouldn't budge; that much she knew.

The Lindworm nodded to somebody behind her, but when Sarah looked, there was nobody there.

"Now that my bride is here, the child can be sent home." He seemed so smug, so self-satisfied, that Sarah's worries were almost completely buried under her irritation.

"I am not your bride _yet,_ and I am not going to be tonight. I came to make sure my brother was returned safely. After that, we might negotiate, _my king._ " Sarah stopped turning the ring on her finger and let her hands drop to her sides. "And if you please, my name is Sarah." Being called his bride irked her because it made her feel like a belonging. If she couldn't do anything else, she could set him straight on that.

The Lindworm narrowed his eyes, and Sarah thought for a moment that she was done for. Instead, he nodded behind her. "You brother is here, Sarah. Say your goodbyes. He will be returned tonight, and you will stay in the castle. We can negotiate tomorrow." He spat out the word, and Sarah had to suppress a grin.

_That's one battle won,_ she thought to herself, turning to Toby at the same time. Her baby brother was asleep, which Sarah wondered at. He looked fed and even bathed, and totally unharmed. She supposed that even though the sun had set, she hadn't been separated from him for too long. Much longer than their parents would like, surely, but not so long that any lasting harm could come to him. She doubted that he would even remember the evening when he got older.

"Hello, Toby," she whispered, leaning close so that she could take her brother into her arms. Before she could touch him, the Lindworm's tail wrapped around her waist and tugged her back. It didn't hurt, but it did surprise her enough to make her yelp. Sarah glared at the Lindworm over her shoulder.

"I was saying goodbye!" she protested. "What on earth was that for?"

"Surely, dear Sarah, you did not think that I would let you hold him. I have no assurances that you wouldn't run away with your infant brother. And where would that leave me? Without a bride and without an assurance that she would return."

_You would only chase after us, you brute,_ she thought, still glaring. Sarah dug her nails into his feathered tail, hard enough for him to get her message and let her go. She didn't bother to look back at him as she leaned over her sleeping brother again, this time keeping her hands clasped behind her back. The Lindworm was right; the thought of stealing her brother back and fleeing had crossed her mind, but she doubted the attempt would be at all successful.

Instead of hugging him like she wanted to, she settled for kissing his forehead. And far too soon, her brother was whisked away from her, presumably to go back home. She wondered how much she could trust the Lindworm's word, but decided worrying about it would only cause her agony. Until she had proof that he lied to her, she would choose to trust him.

Sarah licked her lips and gazed back up at the lanterns so that she wouldn't have to look at the Lindworm. Eventually, however, she gave in and threw him a glance. The fact that he was staring back at her unnerved her, and so did the expression on his face. Sarah thought he looked torn between wanting to eat her or… something else, but she couldn't put a name to it. But she stared back, defiant, and wondered how he got to be known as the Lindworm. He didn't look like a dragon at all.

In fact, Sarah thought he looked more like an overgrown, stretched out owl. Perhaps from very far away his feathers might look like scales, and Sarah read that in faraway lands some lizards' mouths looked a little beakish, but Sarah could only vaguely see the draconic connection. Maybe it was the tail?

"What is your name?" she blurted out. "You know mine, but I don't know yours." It would make her feel better to call him something other than beast or Lindworm. Not that it would change her situation at all, but her stepmother was always font of prattling on about the powers of positive thinking.

The Lindworm considered her question before bowing his head. "My nursemaid called me Jareth," he said.

Sarah wasn't sure if that was a real answer or not—he said what he was _called_ but not what he was named. But perhaps it didn't matter; regardless, she had something to call him that wouldn't make her feel even worse.

"Well then, Jareth," Sarah said, making sure to look him in the eye. "Since we are not going to agree to terms tonight, I will be going to my bed. It has been an eventful day for me; I am sure you understand." She remembered to drop into a shallow, imperfect curtsy before turning away. There was the small matter of her assuming she would be provided a room, but she thought that if she was going to be expected to marry Jareth, his people could at least provide her somewhere with somewhere warm to sleep.

As soon as she was back in the castle, Sarah found a goblin that looked likely to know about her housing situation. She barely had to open her mouth before the goblin nodded and scurried away, motioning to have her follow. Several twists and turns and three grand staircases later, Sarah was shown to a room.

Except it wasn't just a _room_. When she read novels about princesses who lived in suites, this was what she had in mind. The main room held a bed, and across from the grand window was a fireplace with two overstuffed chairs in front of it. There was even a small bookcase, although it wasn't filled with books. To her left was a bathroom, with a sunken tub in the middle of the floor and a vanity set pushed up against the wall. It was covered in a layer of dust, which made Sarah wonder how long ago it had been used.

On her right was a door that led to a sitting room and another wide door which the goblin warned her not to open. Sarah nodded and sent the goblin on her way; as soon as she was out of the room, Sarah cracked the door open.

And immediately wished she hadn't.

Clearly, it was Jareth's room. She could think of no other reason for the feathers littering the floor or the blankets strewn across the place. An extra-large window explained how he got in and out of the place; Sarah was sure that he wouldn't quite fit through the normal doors. Afraid that he could be coming back at any moment, she snapped the door shut and fled to what would be her rooms. Safely on her side of the thick door, she locked it.

To be safe, she also hauled the heavy bookcase in front of the window. If worse came to worst, it probably wouldn't do much; she comforted herself with the thought that it would at least irritate him if he chose to eat her in the middle of the night.

By the time the bookcase was securely in front of the window, Sarah was too exhausted to even try to take a bath. Instead, she fell into the bed and fell asleep instantly, her dreams filled with shining teeth and sharp feathers. It was the dreams that woke her only a few hours later, just as the sky was beginning to lighten. The sun wasn't up just yet, but Sarah knew that she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. Sitting in bed waiting for the inevitable didn't seem like an attractive option either, so Sarah quietly slipped her shoes back on and tiptoed out of her room.

The castle was quiet as she tried to find her way around it. Everything was so busy the night before that it was all but impossible for her to recognize anything without goblins crawling all over it, but eventually she found a way out of the castle. She needed to see the rising sun, hoping it would remind her that everything was real. The square that the castle looked out onto seemed real enough, she supposed. She could easily imagine it existing in a big city, even though she'd never actually visited on before. Her books painted a picture well enough, she supposed, but it was different from actually seeing one.

Only a few goblins were wandering around so early in the morning—the lanterns were still burning—but as soon as Sarah saw her, she was certain she recognized the woman setting up her little stall. _Not a woman, then,_ Sarah thought, her lips pursed. _She was a goblin all along. I should have known…_ She was even selling the strange little teddy bears, among other little things. Sarah huffed and marched herself to the stall.

"Did you plan for all of this?" She asked the question without preamble. "Did you know that this was going to happen?" The goblin woman jumped and dropped a box of what seemed to be little bags of herbs. Sarah sighed and stooped to help pick them up.

"Ah, the young lady from the forest! My dear, what are you doing here?"

Sarah frowned, confused. "You didn't mean for this to happen? It seems like a strange coincidence, then, that I meet you and everything that happened, well… happened. I've had a very strange past few hours," Sarah said when the goblin woman still looked confused. "And now I find myself engaged."

She held out the hand with the ring, which she was still unable to remove. With a cry of surprise, the goblin grabbed her hand and pulled it up close to her face, prodding it with a bony finger as if testing to see if it was real.

"I'll say you have," the woman grunted. "And I never thought I'd see this old thing again, especially not on anybody's finger. I don't know how it happened, but I know where this ring came from." She looked like she was going to smile for a moment before growing incredibly serious and dropping Sarah's hand. Sarah almost took a step back, but was stopped when the woman opened her mouth to speak again.

"It _is_ my fault, in a way, that this happened to you, dear, so I will help you. You must listen carefully and heed my instructions well."

And there, behind her little stall, the woman explained how she met the queen and the magic that she helped to work so that an heir might be born. She explained that something went wrong, or that the queen did not heed her warnings, and the Lindworm was born as the princess's older twin. Sarah opened her mouth to protest this, but the goblin woman only held up her hand for silence.

"Listen, or things will only get worse for you. Think carefully, my dear; his sister is human, is she not?"

Sarah nodded, and the woman smiled, giving her hand a small pat.

"And so he should be, but he was denied that. I will not say that he is a kind man, or that he can be particularly pleasant; you do not deserve to be lied to. But, my dear, there is a way to save yourself, and to perhaps push him closer to humanity. Listen carefully, girl, because it will not be easy."

Sarah leaned in, eyes wide, and nodded her head again, half afraid to break her silence. To think the Lindworm—Jareth—was the queen's son and only a few years older than herself. He seemed ageless, but perhaps not in a good way; his menacing presence seemed to stretch back far beyond human memory, according to the stories she heard.

"He _must_ shed his feathers. Bid him do it four times, and perhaps you will have a husband you can live with. You _must not_ agree to anything before that, but he is stubborn and accustomed to having his way. Be on your guard, dear."

"But how am I supposed to do that, if he's such a bully?" Sarah cried out. Her task seemed almost impossible, and she wanted to do nothing more than return to the mill and her family, where she'd always felt safe.

"You're a clever girl. You'll figure it out, I am certain. Until then, I suggest you return to the castle. You wouldn't want him thinking you've run off, do you?"

Sarah shuddered at the suggestion, thinking of Toby. What _would_ Jareth do if he thought she'd reneged on her promise? Nothing good, she was certain, and the sun was already peeking up above the horizon. She waved goodbye to the goblin woman and thanked her before running back into the castle, not bothering to wonder at how effortlessly the guard at the door opened it again. She had bigger things to worry about.

All thoughts of being tired were put out of her mind as she raced back to her room, hoping to return before anybody noticed she was even gone. She almost made it, but it seemed the goblins were early risers—or at least, the one assigned to her was. Sarah stood in the doorway to her room, panting, her hand still on the door from when she threw it open. The goblin, who seemed to be a relatively young girl, squeaked in surprise and dropped the pile of linens she was holding.

"Sorry!" Sarah gasped out. "I was—I was exploring. I couldn't sleep… Not that it matters. I got lost," she finished weakly. It was true, if only technically, but the girl nodded fervently anyway.

"Would the lady like a bath? The king will be waiting for the lady at breakfast shortly, so it would be best to hurry."

At the mention of Jareth, Sarah inwardly winced. Things would be much easier for her if only she didn't have to see him. The goblins weren't nearly as bad as the stories painted them, and Sarah found that overall, she quite liked them.

"Sure," said Sarah. "If you would just tell me how this works, I think that I can manage myself, though. Are those the clothes I'm meant to wear?" She pointed to a huge pile of fabric nestled on one of the chairs by the fireplace. It didn't look at all like sheets, which worried her greatly.

"Yes, lady," said the goblin, wringing her hands. _She looks like she's expecting me to throw something at her,_ thought Sarah, whose thoughts flew to Jareth again. _If this is how he treats people, we are going to have to have a discussion…_

"What is your name?" Sarah asked abruptly. "I don't want to make your job any more difficult, but the dress you provided seems like a bit… much. Would you mind finding something simpler for me to wear?" Whomever the dress was meant for, it was not a miller's daughter. The fabric looked sheer and floaty, and the only thing that would keep it decent was the sheer volume of it all. Sarah imagined trying to work around the mill in it and had to suppress a snort.

"Trinket, lady. My name is Trinket, and Trinket would be happy to find you something else. Trinket will run your bath and then be right back." Trinket led Sarah to the bathroom and fiddled with the knobs beside the tub until it was filled with steaming water.

And then she was off, leaving Sarah alone with the water and her thoughts. She sunk down into the tub until the water was just below her nose and tried to imagine what the day would be like. It might be possible for her to slip away as soon as possible and avoid Jareth for as long as she could, but if he was as mule-headed as he seemed to be, it would be difficult.

All too soon, Sarah was ushered out of the warm water, into a much more manageable gown, and pulled back into the gardens for breakfast. Jareth was waiting, as she thought he would be, and Sarah had to fight the urge to be self-conscious about how her hair was dripping wet streaks down her back.

They were silent for the first ten minutes, and then Sarah had her first strike of inspiration as she bit into a piece of toast slathered with strawberry jam.

"I'll marry you," she said after choking it down, "but it cannot be today."

"I will not wait," Jareth ground out, glowering at her. Even though his face was covered in feathers, she caught the expression perfectly. She fixed him with a glower of her own and held a single finger up to him to request silence.

"Of _course_ it cannot be today. It would be dishonorable for both of us. You are a king, and you should have a royal wedding. Please remember, Jareth, that I am a simple miller's daughter. If I cannot act the part of a… of a queen, what will your people think of me?" The idea of her being a queen, let alone the queen of the goblins, was absolutely ludicrous. Again, she had to remind herself that she wasn't just living a very vivid dream.

"Whatever I order them to," he answered, but he seemed to be considering her words. Sarah almost sighed in relief.

"Additionally, I would like a proper wedding. My parents must be in attendance, or I will simply be distraught. It would be lovely if my dear husband's parents were in attendance as well." She considered, briefly, batting her eyes at him as she'd witnessed Maya do to a suitor of her own once or twice, then thought better of it. If she laid the act on too heavily, he would no doubt notice that she didn't truly give a fig about his honor, and her stalling tactics were just that.

"Because of that, I request three days to plan, not including today. The wedding can happen on the fourth day. That isn't too much waiting, is it?" She forced herself to place her hand on what might have been his shoulder, if he were human. Jareth shuddered at the contact; Sarah withdrew instantly, afraid that she'd angered him.

"You speak sense," he finally said. "I will allow you three days to prepare, and on the fourth we wed. If you are finished eating, I will show you to the treasury so that you might make the arrangements. As my bride-to-be, anything you might wish for is at your disposal."

There were some people, Sarah knew, that would be giddy at the prospect of having an entire royal treasury's worth of wealth at their disposal. Some people might even relish the idea of planning a royal wedding—no matter if it was to the goblin king—in three days.

Sarah couldn't help but to feel that she'd bitten off more than she could chew.

\---

Everything was absolute chaos. Part of that was to be expected, of course; although the goblin kingdom wasn't exactly what she was expecting, it was still more chaotic than she was used to. _This, however…_

"What happened here? Something went wrong, surely…" Sarah surveyed the damage in the treasury and tried to imagine what possibly could have happened. Perhaps something exploded, although why there would be explosive materials in Jareth's treasure she couldn't imagine. Or, only slightly more likely, perhaps there was a break-in recently. Sarah scanned the enormous room and tried to determine if it looked like anything had been taken, but the shelves were full. So was the floor. In fact, everything was full to bursting. The chests lining the walls seemed largely useless.

"Nothing happened," Jareth said, a tone of surprise just barely lacing his words. Sarah turned around and stared at him incredulously, trying to reconcile his words with the appearance of the room behind her.

"Then, if I might ask… How do you know what came in through taxes, or what you have set aside for certain projects? Everything looks well maintained, so it isn't as if you don't spend money on anything… Where are your records? How do you keep track of it all?" If their meager coffers at home were as disorganized as this, Sarah thought she might have had a heart attack a long time ago. Neither her stepmother nor her father were the best at managing finances—they weren't the worst, either, but her father handed over the duty to Sarah gladly—and Sarah kept everything impeccably organized.

"We take what we need when we need it, Sarah," he said as if the answer was obvious. "As you can see, it is managed."

Forgetting for a moment where she was and to whom she was speaking, Sarah laughed. It was just a tiny, hysterical laugh, but it was a laugh all the same. Jareth was not accustomed to being laughed at. Fear, he could handle. Derision, scorn, even hatred were things he knew well how to deal with. Sarah's laughter was not, and she stopped as soon as his growl built up around between them.

"My apologies, Your Highness," Sarah said, "it's just that… I cannot do anything with everything like… this." She waved a hand behind her and shot him a sympathetic look. "Who can I speak to about getting paper and something to write with? I want to put at least some of it in order before I begin."

Jareth seemed to consider her words again, and Sarah wished she could read his facial expressions better—or at all, really. Somewhere underneath the feathers and the Lindworm form she thought she could see a bit of humanity, and she certainly hoped that was true.

"I said, Sarah, that you may use anything you desire."

"Yes," she acknowledged. "And I appreciate it, but what I desire right now is paper and something to write with. And perhaps two or three goblins who are good at counting," she added, almost as an afterthought. He seemed affronted by her request, which confused Sarah. It seemed simple enough to her.

"Shall I see you at lunch?" She asked, hoping he would accept her olive branch.

"Very well," he responded, and Sarah had to suppress her sigh of relief. Before he could change his mind, she inclined her head and backed in the room. It didn't seem likely that he would attack her, but Sarah couldn't forget how sharp his mouth looked. By the time she found a desk and unearthed it, he was gone. With a small sigh of relief, she went about attempting to start organizing all of the priceless treasures hoarded in the room.

The gold she could understand, and Sarah even knew the approximate value of some of the fabrics, but when she stumbled upon a gem the size of her fist she almost despaired. Where, in the goblin kingdom, could she possibly find somebody to appraise the jewels? Sarah grumbled to herself again about the disorganization of goblins and cleared out a corner. An hour later, that corner was the home of a pile of jewels easily up to Sarah's knees.

Jareth actually, to Sarah's surprise, arranged for writing materials and help to arrive. Sarah beamed when the first goblin showed up, bearing a pile of rough paper in a stack that reached over his head. The next goblin to arrive brought an assortment of elaborate quills and colored inks. Sarah picked the simplest of each and wondered who would ever write with a peacock feather.

Sarah clapped her hands in excitement when the last goblin showed up.

"Trinket! So nice to see you," Sarah proclaimed. It was the truth; the other two goblins—Pince and Querel—were nice enough, but they steered clear of her. They seemed as confused as Jareth had when Sarah set them to work counting gold coins or throwing gemstones in the corner Sarah set aside.

Trinket dipped into a deep, clumsy curtsy, her eyes scanning the room. Sarah made another tally mark on the third sheet of paper in front of her when Querel indicated he hit another hundred gold coins. When Trinket remained standing in the doorway, Sarah stood and ushered her over to the desk.

"Trinket, would you mind helping me? I would say we're about halfway done with the coins, and I'm going to leave the gemstones alone, but I'd really love your help counting the coins. Look, I've found a lot of empty chests, and they all hold about the same amount! Could you count out the coins you put into each one?" Sarah was still half distracted with her own notations, so she missed the way Trinket looked around the room as if Sarah had completely lost her mind.

"If that is what the lady wants…" said Trinket, sounding hesitant.

"Thank you! I will continue cataloging the fabrics over here—did you know that there are eighteen bolts of silk?"

Trinket indicated that she did not know that, just like Sarah suspected nobody in the castle knew. Sarah wondered if her king and queen—or if any of the nobles in the land—didn't know how much wealth they had. Now that she knew the truth about him, Sarah knew that Jareth really was a king. Perhaps it wasn't unreasonable to think that parts of his behavior had to do with his lineage. Sarah shrugged her shoulders and settled in to her task, with only the noise of her quill scratching on paper and the tinkling of coins to break the silence.


	5. Chapter 5

She only realized her fingers were coated to the knuckle in ink when she caught him staring at them. Feeling more embarrassed than usual, she linked her hands behind her back to hide the mess. Jareth wasn't even remotely happy, she could tell, but she didn't think he was angry. In fact, the more she looked at him, he seemed a bit… hurt.

"I'm just about finished in the treasury," she said, nervous, trying to figure out what made him upset. "I didn't know what to do with anything that wasn't a coin or fabric, so I left all of that alone." Sarah licked her lips and waited for him to fill the silence.

They stood in the garden again, the setting sun bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. A table set with one chair stood between them, but Sarah didn't want to sit until he did. The food—too much for any one person to eat alone—looked marvelous, and her stomach growled.

"Are you deliberately avoiding me?" Jareth asked, and Sarah covered her mouth as realization dawned. She promised to meet him for lunch and then promptly forgot, too preoccupied by her sums and keeping Trinket, Pince, and Querel on task. Even at home she tended to get too involved in whatever she was doing. Too late, she realized that she must have hurt his feelings.

"Oh, no! No, I am terribly sorry; please believe me, Jareth. I just lost track of time. Really." Crestfallen by her own forgetfulness, Sarah sat down heavily in the one chair at the table, forgetting her own desire to wait. It was strange, seeing Jareth so visibly upset over a simple misunderstanding. Sarah couldn't help but to feel that ever since she learned his name, he became a little bit… declawed. He wasn't so scary, not even as the Lindworm—not when she knew there was a human somewhere under the feathers. And he was a human that, under the feathers and the gnashing teeth, had the self-confidence of a child.

She only hoped that he wouldn't prove her horribly wrong.

Jareth sat almost as soon as she did, seemingly placated by her words. The lanterns twinkled above them, providing the light that the setting sun couldn't.

"What are these?" Sarah asked, pointing to the floating paper lantern above her head. "I've never seen them before, not until I came here. How do they work?" When he didn't respond immediately, she wondered if she asked something she shouldn't have. Eventually, she tore her gaze from above her to find that Jareth was watching her, just as she was watching the lantern.

"Those are witch lights, Sarah," he said, watching her reaction carefully. To his surprise, her face lit up with excitement, and she grinned. Just as she was unused to magic, he was unaccustomed to humans willingly surrounding themselves with it. But Sarah… Sarah was unlike his parents, unlike his sister, unlike the nursemaid that raised him for the first few years of his life.

He knew, of course, that she was a strange, fickle creature. She agreed to marry him if he saved her from the toil of caring for her infant brother, and then demurred when he acted on his own end of the deal. He understood her words perfectly well, he thought. What he did not understand was _why_ she would not want to marry him; he was a king, after all. Some part of him hoped that she'd be swayed by the overflowing room full of gold, but all she wanted to do was _organize_ it, the silly thing. He'd have to try another tactic to get her to see reason, obviously.

Jareth was so involved in his plotting that he almost missed Sarah's volley of questions, and he had to piece them together for a few seconds before answering.

"I maintain them," he answered, wondering why she cared so much about them and so little for him. "It is _magic_ , of course."

"I thought so!" Sarah responded, pleased. "But how did you make them? Could I learn how to do it too? It seems like such a neat trick, and trying to read by candlelight is not convenient."

Jareth answered her questions as best as he could. His own arcane tutor focused more on the practical applications of everything; Sarah was far more interested in the theoretical workings of magic and how they compared to what she'd read before of the latest breakthroughs in what she called "her world." Jareth was not pleased to discover this gap in his knowledge, and decided to take it up with his old tutor at the earliest opportunity.

Eventually, Sarah turned her curiosity from the lanterns and magic and what could be done with magic to himself. If she were to ask about the splendor of his kingdom, or anything about himself as _king_ , he might have been happy. He enjoyed talking about himself in those contexts.

But Sarah wanted to know about how he got to where he was, and seemed far too interested in comparing what he said to what she'd learned as a child. Every time he tried to redirect the conversation, or ignored her question, she only asked again. Her perseverance, which he might have otherwise found interesting, quickly became grating. He was tired of her questions.

"Wife," he said, cutting her off in the middle of another accidentally invasive question. "Are you finished eating?"

Sarah looked down at her mostly-empty plate and shrugged. She ate while he answered questions, and his fumbling answers gave her plenty of time to enjoy the meal. To her own genuine surprise, Sarah found that she actually enjoyed talking to him. Her parents would have never allowed this topic of conversation, and Maya wouldn't have stood for it too long either. As much as she enjoyed her other friends, she doubted that they would have been able to follow it. Even though his speech was slow and sometimes halting, she decided that she liked his voice.

"I suppose," she finally verbally answered, pushing her plate away from her. A niggling thought about something he said bothered her, but she couldn't quite work it out; he distracted her by standing suddenly and taking two large steps around the table to her.

"Shed your shift, little wife."

Sarah remembered what irked her about his words earlier.

"I am _not_ your wife. Not yet, at least. Do not be improper," she scolded. Jareth clearly did not like her words, but she remained undaunted. Sarah also remembered the witch's words about not giving in; she stood herself and squared her shoulders. If he wasn't used to people standing in his way, well, he would just have to get used to it.

"Shed your shift," he demanded again, and Sarah frowned.

"Not before you shed your feathers," Sarah insisted, hoping she was following the witch's guidance. Jareth reeled back as if slapped by her words, and Sarah watched as he narrowed his eyes at her. _I am_ not _going to be bullied_ , Sarah reminded herself. _If I can get lazy Muffet to do her deliveries, I can handle a spoiled Lindworm._

Although Sarah was determined to not give in to his wishes, she was not prepared for the way he snarled and then shook his whole body until feathers rained down on her. She snatched one out of the air and held it up so that she could see it; before, she knew that the feathers glinted, but she hadn't really looked that hard at them. Inspecting the feathers would be too much like inspecting him, and Sarah felt distinctly uncomfortable about that particular thought.

But the feather was real, and it was there in her hand, which had to mean that the goblin witch was right.

As Sarah watched in horror, Jareth shook away more and more feathers. She took a step back, still clutching one of his discarded feathers in her hand, but found herself unable to flee. To run away would be distinctly rude, she thought, considering that she was the one who ordered him to molt. And then, just as she made up her mind to see this first transformation through to the end, he dropped.

Sarah took a hesitant step forward and found that he was sleeping. His breathing was deep and heavy, which afforded Sarah an opportunity she passed up much earlier; Sarah allowed her gaze to skip over him.

_If this is just the first night_ , she thought, _what will the others bring?_ Already he was smaller, his mass cut down perhaps by a third. He would be better able to manage the smaller hallways in the castle, and he probably wouldn't have to enter and exit his own quarters through windows. Jareth was still covered in feathers, despite the amount littering the ground around her feet, but Sarah could see that he wore fewer layers. Afraid to spend too much time alone with his sleeping form— _what if he wakes?_ she asked herself—she fled back into the castle.

When Sarah woke, it was to a concerned Trinket tapping her nose with a paw. It wasn't that unlike being woken by one of the semi-feral kittens that lived by the mill, so it took Sarah a while to realize the thing she was cuddling was definitely not a furry bundle of milk breath. Trinket took it in stride, and only stuttered around Sarah for the next hour.

Instead of finding solace in the room meant for her, Sarah had wandered into the treasury again and made the chair and desk provided for her earlier her bed. As a miller's daughter, she felt more at home in a work environment than a plush bedroom set up for a princess.

All through her breakfast and continued work in the treasury, Jareth did not appear. Sarah, when she could tear her mind away from the task at hand, was both concerned and relieved. When she last left him, he had certainly been alive. Sleeping peacefully, even, which made her feel better. However, she did not desire to test his ire by going to find him unless he made himself visible. Sarah satisfied herself by quietly inquiring after his wellbeing from Trinket, who said he was busy.

Sarah discovered what he made himself busy with right around lunchtime, when a bipedal fox sauntered into her workspace.

"My lady!" he boomed, sweeping his plumed hat off of his head and dropping into a low bow. When he did not move from that position, Sarah put down her quill and tilted her head to the side.

"My… lord?"

The fox straightened himself out and Sarah was able to get a better look at him. He looked exactly like the foxes that terrorized the farms in her village, but he stood on his two back legs and seemed to have no difficulty in speaking. He was outfitted in a tiny version of red and yellow livery, which caused Sarah to smile; she thought he looked rather like a sort of toy.

"Sir Didymus at your disposal, Your Serene Highness! Our king thought it would be best if you got to know your kingdom's capital city, and so I am here to be your sworn protector!"

Sarah didn't attempt to correct him on the status of the city's ownership or her title, even if she was deeply curious as to why he called her serene. Instead, she stood and dropped into a shallow curtsy, a wide smile splitting her face.

"Why, I would be delighted, Sir Didymus! Lead the way, if you will," she said, and skipped after him out of the treasury. She'd already set aside a small sum for herself to work with, so her work in the treasury could be done for the day; she ignored the list of things she'd drawn up earlier, which included organizing food and clothing and other assorted busy work for her upcoming nuptials. They could wait a few more hours.

When they both made it outside of the castle, Sarah found that she was not at all surprised to see that her gallant knight's noble steed was a shaggy dog who answered to the name of Ambrosias. They made on odd pair, the fox and the dog, but Sarah walked beside them all the same. Sir Didymus regaled her with stories of noble battles and magical feats that took place in various parts of the city. Sarah's favorite story was about a mermaid who lived in a fountain that sprayed water in such a fine mist that it was constantly cloaked in rainbows. The mermaid was, unfortunately, no longer in residence.

When they reached the very far edge of the city, Sir Didymus proclaimed that part of the tour over. Where the building and cobblestones ended, what looked to be an expansive hedge maze began.

"But, sir knight," Sarah protested, "why can't we go through part of this, as well?"

Sir Didymus's nose twitched and he stared out into the maze.

"That is the Labyrinth, my Illustrious Ladyship, and it would not do well to take such a fair maiden as yourself into it. There are dangers untold within its bounds."

Sarah was rather more accustomed to danger than she thought Sir Didymus expected. The giant mill stone was heavy and dangerous and would love to crush limbs, she was sure, if it was to be allowed to. Horses could be dangerous. Lindworms could be dangerous, and she was engaged to one.

"Oh, Sir Didymus, how could anything be dangerous when I have a noble knight such as yourself with me? Surely, no harm could befall us." Sarah's words earned her another frantic nose twitch, but this time her knight also wrung his paws together.

"It is as the lady says," he admitted finally. "There will be no danger as long as you stay by my side, maiden fair, and we do not venture too deep. The Labyrinth is meant for both offense and defense, and only the king knows all of its secrets."

"Very well," Sarah said, stepping through the opening in the hedge. "We will be quick, but it is as you said; a future queen should know her lands."

They wandered through the Labyrinth for some time, and although Sarah thought it seemed more like a garden, Sir Didymus kept one hand firmly on the hilt of his rapier. The hedges were tall and only occasionally dotted with the odd statue to break the greenery. Sarah reached out to touch one, eliciting a cry from her fox guardian.

"My Serene Highness, you mustn't touch the statues!" He cried out, stopping her touch with his paw. "They are not always as they seem, and you mustn't put yourself in danger."

"Oh," she replied, taken aback. "If you say so, Sir Didymus." Sarah would have asked what the statues might be, if not plain statues, but a roar in the distance startled her.

"It would be best to leave, my Resplendent Queen," Sir Didymus, who was already urging Ambrosias to turn. Sarah bit her lower lip and did not move.

"But it sounds as if it is in pain," she whispered, "whatever it is." Without a second thought, Sarah took off in the direction of the bellowing. Her dress, still more fine than what she wore around the mill, hampered her movement somewhat. Ambrosias yipped behind her as Sir Didymus nudged him into a sprint, but neither had to run too far; the source of the noise was soon discovered.

Sarah hid behind one of the hedges so that she could peek around its edge, and when Sir Didymus found her, she had both of her hands pressed up against her chest over her heart.

"It's cruel, Sir Didymus," she whispered, motioning to the orange, furry beast that caught her attention. It was strung up upside down by its ankles and cried out in pain every time one of the goblins below whipped it. Sir Didymus did not have a response to his lady's words because he, too, thought it was cruel.

"If he was found without an escort in the Labyrinth, my Queen, that is the punishment."

"That is terrible!" she cried, balling both of her hands into fists. Before her loyal knight could stop her, Sarah stepped out from behind the tall hedge. Ambrosias whined, but she paid him no mind.

"Excuse me," she called out to the small circle of knights surrounding the beast. "Yes, all of you. You will stop what you are doing at once and let this poor beast down." When none of the guards moved, Sarah stamped her foot. It was a motion that worked on the younger children of the village when they were misbehaving, and Sarah was glad to see that it worked on armored goblin guards as well. Unfortunately, when they turned to face her it was with weapons drawn.

"Halt, you ruffians!" Sir Didymus found his voice and steered Ambrosias so that he and his steed stood between Sarah and the guards. Sarah didn't miss how the dog shook, and her heart went out to it. "This is your future queen! Do as she says, or she will have you suspended by your toes over the swamp!"

The goblins looked at each other and all at once dropped their weapons They knew that technically they'd had several queens recently, but none of them had ever entered the Labyrinth of their own volition. None of them came accompanied, and none of the other queens would try to help a wanderer like the beast they had captured.

"Let… Let him down, please. Gently." Sarah, although she had commanded the goblin guards earlier, was still unnerved by the way Sir Didymus talked about her. Perhaps she was their future queen, but she had no desire to turn into a queen that was feared before her reign even started. She watched as the goblins let their prisoner down, hoping that the damage was not already done. As they scattered as soon as their order was carried out, Sarah feared it was.

Sarah rushed to the beast's side and helped it to its feet.

"I'm Sarah," she said in the same low voice she might use to calm a startled horse. "If you would like, you can come with me. I think I will be going back to the castle." By the way Sir Didymus slumped in his saddle, she thought her proclamation came as welcome news. Their brief sojourn into the Labyrinth probably cost him a few grey hairs around his muzzle. Sarah slid her hand into the beast's and tugged him along.

"Sarah Ludo's friend," the beast—Ludo—ground out as he shuffled along beside her. On her other side, Sir Didymus snorted.

"Of course I am your friend, Ludo. And I'm Sir Didymus's friend, too," she said, glancing down at the little fox. He tugged on the feather adorning his hat, but otherwise didn't do anything else. They left the hedges behind and wandered through the city, keeping their pace sedate so that Ludo could keep up.

"My lady," whispered the fox knight when Ludo lagged behind. "Why did you save the beast? All denizens know the rules."

"He was in trouble," she said simply. "I could do something about it. Why should I not? He seems nice enough." As if to highlight her point, Ludo shuffled his feet faster so that he could present Sarah with a flower he plucked from somebody's window box. Sarah smiled and tucked it behind her ear, hoping the owner would forgive them.

Goblins stared as they all passed, and Sarah waved at them, hoping they didn't remember her dash around the city from when she first arrived. To her own surprise, she knew most of the way back without Sir Didymus's help, and by the time they made it to the castle's main entrance, she was confident she could find it again by herself.

"I think that we have to part ways here. I have wedding invitations to write, you see." Sarah patted Ludo's hand one last time and bend down to scratch behind Ambrosias's ear. "Will I see you tomorrow, Sir Didymus?"

"If that is what my young queen desires," he said with another elaborate bow. Sarah stifled a giggle and curtsied right back, even though she knew it flustered the fox. She only felt a little sad when she watched her newfound friends turn away from her, and that was only because she had no idea how to write a wedding invitation.

\---

"Should it say 'Your Highnesses' or 'future father- and mother-in law'?" Sarah asked the air, her quill held over the creamy paper. It was much nicer outdoors than in her room, so Sarah requested that a portable writing desk be brought out to the gardens. There weren't any shed Lindworm feathers lingering, which made it even better.

"I think," she said, writing slowly, "that it is safest to address them as Highnesses…" Sarah was careful with her ink, making sure not to move her quill too quickly or too slowly. Getting her loops just right was a pain as well, but she wanted to make as good an impression as possible upon her future in-laws. It was bad enough that Sarah's wedding was a surprise to her; she didn't want to shock an entire kingdom as well.

Although she was concerned about what type of impression she was going to make on her former king and queen, the letter she was most concerned about writing would go to her parents. The last they heard from her was the night she disappeared. She didn't even know if they were home when Toby was returned, which was a thought that caused her no small amount of panic. Sarah tapped the soft end of her quill against the tip of her nose as she pondered what to write.

"Good evening, Sarah. What is it that you are doing?" Jareth stood behind her, but Sarah didn't notice him until he spoke. She jumped in surprise and almost spilled her ink.

"Good evening to you, as well," she said, staring at the blank sheet meant for her family. "What did you do today? I appreciate you sending Sir Didymus to me. It was very kind." She thought about placing her hand on his shoulder, but thought better of it.

"I performed my duties," Jareth ground out, and Sarah had to stop herself from pointing out that she had no idea what those were. They both fell silent again, and Sarah redirected her attention back to her unstarted letter.

Sarah hummed, remembering that she should at least offer something to his statement, and tapped her dry quill against her inkwell.

"You speak easily," he tried again, to which Sarah hummed again. She didn't really hear him; instead, she was wondering what she could put in her letter home what would cause the least amount of damage possible.

"Little wife, what has you so preoccupied?"

"I am trying to write a letter to my parents, and I am afraid that I'm not having much success," she admitted. While she did not enjoy her new epithet, Jareth did not frighten her as he initially had. Instead, she was far more startled by his seemingly sudden appearance. "What would you write to them?"

"I would not know," he admitted, as Sarah remembered the story the witch told her. _Of course he wouldn't know_ , Sarah scolded herself. He'd never really had parents, barring the nursemaid present at his birth.

"Oh," she said, acting as if she didn't know why. "Well, then, I think that I will just… explain the situation to them. Is there… is there anything you would like to tell them as well? I will write it for you, if you… if you would like me to." She stopped herself from suggesting that he perhaps couldn't write, although if he could, then Sarah didn't see how. He was changing, even after only the first molting, but if me managed to learn as a child how to write with wings and claws, she would be impressed.

Jareth looked down his nose at her, and Sarah wondered if she was meant to be afraid of the expression. Instead of cowering, she smiled up at him and twirled the quill between her fingers.

" _All_ of my correspondences will be kept private. If I have need to begin discourse with your family, I will do it on my own time."

At this, Sarah frowned.

"Perhaps," she said lightly, trying to keep the irritation from her tone, "you could have just said no." Deciding to ignore him again, she leaned back over a fresh sheet of paper and scratched away at it. Anger made her words hastier than she meant, and the end result was a disorganized, messy letter. Sarah blew out her cheeks with a frustrated breath and decided that she couldn't spare any more time on it. The sun was already setting, and she had to find another way to cajole her suitor into molting again. She hoped it would be like the night before, where it all devolved so easily into an argument she could win.

In the end, it was easier than she hoped. Perhaps stumped or uncomfortable still by her discussing family, he again ordered her to shed her shift. Sarah refused, again, claiming that she still was not his wife. Although Jareth was clearly expecting her argument again, he did not protest. When she ordered that he molt, once again, he complied easily.

Sarah kept her seat and watched the feathers fly from him again, much like she did the night before. She watched as his form shrunk again, and this time she thought she was able to catch glimpses of pink skin and golden hair in between the movement.

When he stopped and was still standing, Sarah was more than a little shocked. She was expecting him to fall asleep as he did the night before; the molting looked exhausting and perhaps a little painful.

"Go to your room, little queen," he ordered. If she couldn't see his exhaustion in his stance, she could hear it in his voice. Without a second thought, Sarah complied.


	6. Chapter 6

There were some things Sarah found she missed from her previous life. Not having to write letters to her father and stepmother regarding her accidental elopement with the Lindworm was one of them. Having to instruct goblins not to bow every time they saw her was another.

At the moment, however, Sarah found that she most missed her comparatively empty wardrobe. After a long morning full of deciding what the guests at her farcical wedding would most like to eat—and having to guess what a king and queen might find acceptable, as the goblins were no help—followed up by an early afternoon of picking a location and what decorations could be managed in just a day, Sarah almost despaired at the dresses lined up for her viewing pleasure. She thought that if she had grown up wearing elaborate gowns, she might not find the dresses lined up in front of her quite so atrocious. As it was, all Sarah could think of when she saw the bustle on one or the trailing sleeves on another was _I could not work around the mill in this._

Being poked and prodded by hordes of goblin seamstresses did not help matters at all, and left Sarah feeling distinctly like a pincushion. After a day of having various baked delicacies described to her—many of which she had never even heard of before—Sarah did not relish dressing like one. By the time she tried on the third dress of many presented to her and her second elaborate hairstyle, Sarah was as finished with the menu as she wanted to be. After having a ridiculous dish called Plate of Snow explained to her—it was nothing but egg whites whipped for hours into a fluff—Sarah gave up and let the goblin chefs design the menu at their own discretion. Everybody would just have to make do with whatever the goblins thought suitable.

It wasn't as if her husband-to-be was any help in the matter. His new smaller size allowed him to wander the larger hallways, one of which her rooms opened into, and he stopped by to inquire after her wellbeing. Sarah leapt at the opportunity to gain any insight as to what nobles might like, but when she asked him for suggestions, he simply said that nobody would dare to second guess the judgement of his queen. Sarah only glowered at him while he pretended not to notice; he only left after she pointed out to him that it was bad luck to see the bride in her gown before the wedding.

To Sarah's surprise, the castle housed two large greenhouses in addition to the gardens. While her hair was twisted into yet another style, Sarah listened as the head gardener explained which flowers would or would not be appropriate for her wedding from behind a privacy screen. Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation.

"What is most plentiful, then?" she asked. "We could just use that, if you find it acceptable." Sarah only half listened when the gardener was explaining how different flowers could mean different things; she thought it was overly complicated an unnecessary. If a person wanted to tell somebody else that they were loved, surely the best and most direct approach would be to simply say it?

"Asters would be lovely," said the gardener after a moment's hesitation. "So would violets."

"If you're sure they won't be any trouble, then those will work nicely. And perhaps ivy wreaths—those are used at weddings, are they not?" The last time somebody from her village got married, she remembered all of the younger girls being sent out to find the ivy; she supposed it was meant to bring good luck, which Sarah thought she would need in spades.

"Asters, violets, and ivy will all be put together, my queen," said the goblin, who sounded relieved at her decision. Sarah did not point out that she was not a queen yet in favor of rubbing her temples. She heard the door to her rooms swing open and then closed again, marking the gardener taking his leave.

 _Would that that was my last meeting today_ , Sarah silently mourned. _I doubt I can take much more of this._

But her thoughts were interrupted by the whispers of the goblins trying their hardest to make the dress she was currently stuffed into fit. It was too wide in her shoulders and far too long, even when she wore uncomfortable heels half a size too big for her feet.

"I thought all princesses were the same," huffed a conscripted goblin handmaiden to her left. "So why's none of these dresses fitting?"

"Dunno," said the goblin currently brushing out her hair—again. "Maybe the first one was broken? This princess would probably fit all of the last princess's things. Weren't she wearing her dress before?"

Sarah sucked in a breath and willed the goblins to speak more while also dreading what she knew was probably coming next. Until now, Sarah hadn't heard anything about the women who came before her. If they were in the castle, they were hidden well; Sarah took every opportunity to explore and hadn't found even a hint as to where the baroness or two princesses were. Sarah, like the rest of the outside world she came from, feared the worst. The most common scenario whispered about was that Jareth ate up his brides with one snap of his gleaming jaws. Others thought he might wait a day or two before finally eating them, and Sarah tried very hard not to believe in either story. After all, she was to be the next bride.

But it was difficult to remain hopeful when all of the previous brides were missing.

"Say, princess," started the second goblin, "What do you want done with your hair? The middle princess wore it all braided up, and we all thought it looked nice with her dress. Oh. _Your_ dress," the goblin corrected herself, dipping into a deep curtsy.

All at once, Sarah realized that she was wearing a dead woman's gown. While she realized that the princess hadn't actually died while wearing it—probably—it still made her flesh crawl. Small wonder it didn't fit; the dress was tailored to somebody else entirely.

"I…" she paused, swallowing hard. "I need to take a break, if you don't mind. I will be back shortly." Before the goblins could react, she yanked at the stays of the corset and slid the sleeves off her shoulders. One of the goblins gasped when she let the skirt of the gown crumple onto the floor, and another leaped to catch her abandoned corset. She hadn't seen the clothes she arrived in since that night, so once again she had to don the clothes of a dead woman.

Sarah scrambled to pull the much less elaborate sleeves of her borrowed dress into place as she threw the doors to her rooms open. The hallways were mercifully empty—most of the goblins in the castle were most likely at work preparing for the upcoming wedding—and Sarah darted along the same path she traced with Sir Didymus the day before.

Once she was outside of the castle, Sarah found that she didn't know where to go. She knew that she didn't particularly want to speak to anybody, so finding the witch did not sound appealing. Nor did she want to sit in a crowded place and allow her future subjects to watch her slip into a panic. Before she really knew what she was doing, her feet found the entrance to the labyrinth.

The hedges looked as orderly as they had the day before, and Sarah knew not to touch the statues. The guards she encountered yesterday should offer her safe passage, and their king's ring was still stuck on her finger. She decided that she would be okay as long as she touched nothing and did not draw attention to herself.

But Sarah was curious by nature; when she found herself in an area that she didn't quite recognize, she was not afraid. Instead, she studied the stone walls and concluded that she must have reached a new part of the labyrinth. She had never seen walls quite like the ones before her, and she grew more and more certain with every corner she rounded that her path was shifting whenever she wasn't looking at it.

"Oh, this is terribly unfair," she said as she turned around to find that what had once been her path was one large expanse of wall. She hadn't forgotten that she was wearing the probably dead baroness's gown, just as she hadn't forgotten that if the goblins weren't keeping that fact from her, they certainly hadn't made it a point to tell her of it, either. And now the whole labyrinth seemed to be laughing at her; she hadn't thought to bring anything to mark her path—why would she?

Sarah turned around one more time, only to come face to face with two—or was it four?—guards standing in front of two doors. One door and one set of guards wore red, while the other door and the remaining guards were dressed in blue. The guards of the same color seemed to be sitting on each other somehow, but Sarah couldn't quite figure out how. Their shields, almost as large as the doors themselves, obscured most of her view.

"Excuse me," Sarah said as she approached them. "Would you be able to tell me the way out of this labyrinth? I seem to have gotten quite lost."

The guards looked at her and then back at themselves; two guards, one of each color, had the treat of conferring upside down. While they whispered, Sarah caught the words "queen," and "riddles." She signed inwardly. Would nothing ever be simple?

"Hello, young queen," greeted the right-side-up guard in blue. "You may pass through one door, but only if you pass our test of wit and best us in our game of riddles." All four guards snickered, and Sarah frowned at them.

"That doesn't sound so bad," she admitted. "And after that, which door may I go through? Or may I choose my path myself?"

"Oh, but my dear, you misunderstand!" said the guard in blue. "You have your choice in which door you wish to go through, but only if you can answer the riddle we pose to you and you pose to us a riddle we cannot answer."

"Yes," affirmed the guard in red. "And you may only answer or ask one riddle of each of us. But beware, little queen, behind one of these doors lies something you do not seek."

Sarah blinked at the guards and then furrowed her brows. She liked riddles well enough, of course, but had never really bothered to commit any to memory. The few she did know she was certain the guards would recognize in an instant.

"Very well, then," she said, pursing her lips. "Shall one of you go first?"

Before the blue guards could speak, the red guards leaped in.

"What thing, my queen, has never happened nor ever should happen?" Both red guards grinned at her, while Sarah fervently hoped that there was not one single answer they would accept. She could think of a lot of things that never happened and, in her opinion, never should. But she thought of what she knew instead of turning to fantastical hypotheticals, and most of what she knew rested in the realms of books and mill work.

"I believe," she answered slowly, "that a mouse has never nested with a cat, nor should a mouse ever nest with a cat." Sarah jumped as both red guards burst into cackling laughter.

"Correct, correct! The queen is correct."

Sarah took a deep breath and hoped that her heartbeat would calm down soon. As the right-side-up blue guard opened his mouth to pose her his riddle, she prepared herself for a more difficult challenge.

"Ah, queen, here is mine: which is the broadest body of water, and yet the least dangerous to cross?"

Immediately, Sarah knew she could rule out several. The sea, for example, she heard was quite large, but ships could get lost of dashed against rocks. Rivers could be unpredictable or move too violently after meltwater was introduced, and a boat could fail in a lake. Sarah thought of the mill pond back home, but it was not very large, and the turning mill could make it dangerous. She bit her lip in irritation.

And then she remembered the late spring mornings when she had to wake up extra early. In the direction opposite the forest beside the village, fields stretched in every direction. Sarah liked waking up just in time to catch the morning sun glinting off the morning dew, which could stretch as far as she could see some days.

"Could it be," Sarah answered, "the dew?"

The blue guard frowned, but acknowledged that she answered correctly. Sarah broke out into a radiant smile; as long as she could pose both of them riddles they could not answer, she would have her choice of doors to walk through. She paid no mind to the warning that she might stumble upon something she did not seek, as most of the things she came across while in the Goblin Kingdom were things she had not sought.

"Here is my first riddle to you." She addressed the guard in blue. "Four wings I have, which swiftly mount on high, on sturdy pinions, yet I never fly. And though my body often moves around, upon the self-same spot I'm always found; and, like a mother, who breaks her infant's bread, I chew for man before he can be fed. What am I?"

This was a riddle that amused her, knowing mills as intimately as she did. Before she read the riddle in a forgotten book at the village's in, she'd never considered putting her everyday life into riddle of rhyme. The blue guard screwed up his face in thought, so Sarah turned to the red guard.

"Your riddle is as follows: why do men make an oven in a town?"

The guards hemmed and hawed and ducked behind their shields to confer with their fellows. The red guard's answer came first, and Sarah listened with a sinking heart.

"Why, my queen, men make an oven in a town because they cannot make a town in an oven!"

Between the two riddles, Sarah thought the one she posed to the red guards was the most difficult because it was largely nonsense. Seeing it defeated so easily did not inspire confidence in her. Knowing that whatever was beyond the red door was now out of her reach, she turned all of her attention to the blue guards. They were still puzzling over her riddle, which only made her feel a little better. She felt it was fairly straightforward, and that perhaps she should have decided on a more difficult one.

But as minutes ticked by, Sarah became more and more confident that she would at least be able to go through the blue door.

"Do you give up, sirs?" she asked politely, linking her hands behind her back. They grumbled at her and shifted uncomfortably, but eventually admitted that they could not think of an answer.

"What manner of beasts do you have in your land?"

Sarah hid her smile behind her fingertips. "It isn't a beast at all, of course; it is a windmill!" Even though she considered it the easier of the two riddles she gave, it made some sense to her that the goblin guards were not able to figure out the answer. Everybody—except, perhaps, the witch and possibly Jareth himself—seemed to think that all human women were princesses. Sarah doubted that any of the real princesses any of the goblins met were very accustomed to the work of common folk. Therefore, Sarah's background would be an anomaly for all of them.

"May I pass?" Sarah asked before the upside-down guard could complain about her riddle. The blue guards shuffled to the side and grudgingly let her pass. Before she shut the door behind her, Sarah turned around and waved to them. "Goodbye, and thank you for letting me through," she said. The door swung shut without a response, and Sarah only shrugged. In the distance she could see the tall spires of the castle, so if she could only keep them in her view, perhaps she would not get too lost.

She still had no desire to return, however. Even those goblins she was starting to think of as friends—Trinket, Sir Didymus, and even, she grudgingly thought, perhaps Jareth—kept the truth of what happened to the previous brides from her. Perhaps, now that she was out in the labyrinth, she could find somebody who might answer that question for her. Things were not looking good, exactly, but now that she wasn't listening to list after list of food or flower options, or being forced to try on the extravagant gowns of probably dead women, things were looking better.

At least, that was what she thought until she found herself hurtling deep down into a shaft she hadn't seen open up. Sarah had enough time to look up and see the sunlight rapidly disappearing and to process that when she landed, it would most likely hurt. With that one frantic thought in mind, Sarah reached out—her hands hit the sharp stone of the tunnel first—and found a rope. She grabbed it with both hands and shrieked as she felt the rough material slice through her palms. The sudden stop yanked at her, and her shoulders made a sick popping noise. It stung, and hot tears immediately welled in her eyes, but she knew if she didn't slow her fall down she would have something more than cut palms to worry about.

Panting heavily in fear and pain, Sarah climbed down the rope, holding it carefully. All thoughts of the time passing were pushed out of her mind, but by the time her toes touched the ground she felt as if several years had passed. Shoving her hands under her arms, Sarah craned her neck skywards and stared up at the square of sunlight shining down on her. There would be no getting back up, especially with the way her hands were throbbing in pain.

"Hello?" she called out, miserable. She leaned over and found the stony wall with her shoulder so that she wouldn't have to touch it with her hands. "Is anybody out there?" She fervently hoped there was and that her immurement wouldn't last long.

Sarah moved slowly around what she was beginning to think of as the cell, hoping to find a way out. Her eyes strained in the dark as she tried to see her surroundings, and when her feet kicked against something on the ground, she had no other choice but to slide down the wall and reach out to find it again. Sarah reached out a shaking hand to what her foot hit and pulled something hard and mostly smooth up to her face. In the thin light she could see that it was light in color and looked like it had been gnawed on. Sarah took in a deep breath through her nose and tried not to panic.

She wasn't as learned as those who studied the human body, but she knew enough to recognize a human—or at least, humanoid—bone when she saw one. Sarah dropped it back on the floor and brought her hand back to her chest. Although she tried to stave off the fear, tears welled in her eyes again.

"Hello!" she called out, her voice high and tight with fear. "I'm lost! I am not supposed to be here," Sarah added. The occupant of this particular prison had clearly been dead long enough for their corpse to be scavenged… which might not have been very long at all. She hoped their jailer would hear her and come investigating—if their jailer was still around.

Just as she was preparing to call out again, she heard knocking coming from the wall across from her. Sarah watched, stunned, as thin lines of light traced over the wall and it swung open. Her rescuer was squat and looked irritated, but he and his bright lantern were both welcome.

"Who's you?" he asked, as if accusing her of usurping the prisoner's place. He looked form her face to the scattered bones on the ground; Sarah followed his gaze and felt her stomach turn again. The skeleton had once been a woman, judging by the tattered and stained gown on the floor, not a foot away from Sarah's knee. A rich woman, if the gown and glittering baubles were anything to go by.

 _I think I've found a bride_ , Sarah thought, a feeling of cold dread washing through her body. _And she is most definitely dead._

"I'm Sarah," she made herself answer. Even to herself, her voice sounded small and feeble. "And I am—"

"The princess," her unwilling rescuer groaned. "Well, get up. Can't have you sitting on the floor with her," he said, motioning to the skeleton. "Hows you all end up in these places, I'll never know…" He turned his back and made to walk away; Sarah had to scramble to her feet and stumble after him through the door.

"The others are here?"

The goblin leading her out chuckled.

"Well, they _were_ ," he said. Sarah frowned at him, hands still pressed against her sides.

"What is your name?"

"Hoggle." He eyed her suspiciously, and she tried to smile at him. They wound through more dark hallways and Sarah pondered the wisdom of her next question before she asked it.

"There were two other princesses. Where are they?"

Hoggle stopped in his tracks and stared at Sarah, open bewilderment on his face. Sarah understood; she didn't really understand why she asked that question either.

"Other one is dead," he admitted, looking down at his shoes. "But the other one is alive. I think. Since yous queen and all, now, I s'ppose you can see her…" He let his words trail off, as if he wasn't exactly sure about his own statement. A shudder rolled down her spine, but Sarah made herself nod anyway.

Without another word, Hoggle set his mouth in a hard line and motioned for her to follow him. The chill damp of the dark prison made every throb of her aching upper body more pronounced, and that it was Sarah focused on. Better to use her pain to distract herself from the two dead women she was probably close to sharing a fate with. Soon enough they came to another door that Hoggle swung open. She followed him into the second prison room, looking carefully at the ground.

"Hello," Sarah said, taking care to keep her voice soft. "I am here to get you out." Hoggle looked up at Sarah, and for a moment she expected him to protest. Instead, he simply shook his head and looked at the woman on the ground.

"You are wearing my gown," she said, her words slow and slurred. "You must be the next bride."

"I am," Sarah confirmed. This was the last woman taken to be the Lindworm's bride—the baroness. Sarah looked down at her and tried to remember the goblins' earlier words about their shared statures.

No longer, Sarah thought, looking at the baroness's too-thin wrists and the hollows under her eyes. Rage coiled in her chest.

"Let's get you up," she said to the baroness. "And then let's get you home." Sarah gritted her teeth and helped the baroness to her feet; the woman could barely stand, so she had to lean on Sarah for support. Her long, once burnished red was dull and matted, and her skin felt papery.

"Hoggle, please get us back into the castle. Unseen, if you can; before she can go home, I need to take care of… I apologize, but what is your name?"

The baroness rested her head on Sarah's shoulder and mumbled "Annelise."

"If that's what yous want, new queen," Hoggle said. "I will do my best." His words seemed grudging, but Sarah was willing to trust him. She had no other choice.

Sarah nodded and tightened her grip on the woman. Annelise could hold at least some of her own weight, which meant that Sarah wouldn't have to try to carry her. Still, by the time Sarah slipped into her rooms—which were mercifully free of all goblins and ridiculous wedding gowns—she was exhausted and very near collapse.

"I have something for you to wear here," Sarah said, pointing to the wardrobe provided to her. She winced when she realized she was offering Annelise's own clothes to her. The baroness didn't seem too bothered by the idea and simply inclined her head. "While I'm getting something for you to eat, did you want to take a bath? It's right through that door," Sarah said, pointing, "but… you probably already know that."

The baroness didn't answer, perhaps too tired to bother with words. Instead, she made her way into the bathroom, shuffling her feet in the exact sort of way Sarah was sure she'd been warned against. Sarah's heart broke for the woman; they were from the same kingdom, and even though the other woman was part of the nobility, Sarah knew more about her than she knew about any of the other brides. Sarah heard that Annelise was the bravest of all of the brides and that she enjoyed riding her horse through her father's hunting grounds and had a knack for embroidery.

But the woman Sarah left in her rooms was a shell of her former self. Sarah couldn't imagine Annelise holding a needle, much less riding a horse anywhere; she seemed far too breakable. Frowning, Sarah scooped some cooling broth into a bowl and stole a few rolls from the countertop they were left on. When she sent Annelise home, how would she recover? Sarah wondered if she'd be able to ride her horses again, or if her near entombment stole even that joy from her.

Sarah snuck through the hallways, finding them mercifully empty again, and set her tray of purloined food down on the small table in front of the fireplace. Her hands stung from use and she hissed, sticking them under her arms again. She should have stopped to find bandages of some sort, she realized, before she returned to her rooms. Annelise was still in the bath, judging from the sounds of splashing water coming from the bath room.

"I have some food for you," Sarah called out. "If you would like, I can bring it in to you."

Silence. And then, weakly "if you would not mind." Sarah gingerly picked up the tray again and stomped so that Annelise could track her movement between the rooms. She didn't know exactly what she baroness had gone through, but Sarah knew enough; even though she had little to offer Anneliese, Sarah would do what she could to help her.

"Here," said Sarah, crouching down beside her. "Drink this slowly."

Annelise grabbed the bowl of broth from Sarah's hands and pressed it to her lip. Her eyes fluttered shut, and Sarah had to avert her gaze, suddenly realizing that Annelise was still in the bath.

"I know you are hungry right now, but please try to drink that slowly. I have other things as well, but we need to see how you're feeling after this." Sarah knew how much it could hurt to fill a stomach after an empty day of hard work—she could not imagine what it would feel like to suddenly have food after long stretches of going without.

Annelise paused long enough to lick her lips and then nodded once. Once the broth was gone, Sarah handed her a roll and retreated to the far corner of the room, trying hard not to stare. In Sarah's mind, baronesses were meant to be soft women who lived lives of luxury. Annelise was made up of hard angles and sold to the Lindworm because her family was drowning in debt. Perhaps, if they met earlier, they would have gotten along well. They might have even been very good friends.

"You injured your hands," Annelise said in between bites of bread. "Let me see them."

Sarah, pulled from her wistful thoughts of companionship, shook her head. Her hurts were lesser; she could deal with them herself.

"It isn't that bad," she lied, tucking them behind herself. In truth, they were terribly swollen and still oozed blood if she moved them too much. They would take ages to heal and a lot of careful movement, and Sarah wasn't sure if she had the luxury of time or rest.

"Nonsense. Bring yourself over here," Annelise ordered, sounding every inch the baroness. "Please," she added hesitantly, as if trying out the word. Sarah complied, finding it difficult not to. Annelise grabbed her hands as soon as Sarah was close and traced a wet finger over them. "These need washing and to be wrapped up."

"I know," said Sarah. "I was going to do that as soon as you were on your way home." She felt the hot stain of a blush spread across her face.

Annelise's finger stopped its tracing movement as soon as Sarah said the word 'home.' The looked up at Sarah with glittering eyes, tears welling.

"I can go home, can't I? I forgot that I even could. I did not think that I would." Her words were quiet, and Sarah felt anger and fear settle hard in the pit of her stomach. She knew what Annelise felt, to an extent, because she felt similar. Even if she made it to her wedding, and even if she succeeded in making Jareth more human, she would never get to go home.

"You can," said Sarah, holding out a towel. "And before anybody tries to stop us, I think you should."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most riddles were taken from a modernization/translation of Wynkyn de Worde's 1511 _Amusing Questions._


	7. Chapter 7

Sarah did think, for a moment, about how easy it would be to climb into Annelise’s carriage and escape with her. In the end, she decided against it for several reasons. The first reason was her family; if she disappeared, what would happen to them? The second, and perhaps more overpowering, was that her anger outweighed her fear for herself. Sarah decided that she would give Jareth a piece of her mind if it was the last thing she did. The fact that it very well might be the last thing she did was also forefront in her mind.

She waited an hour after she saw Annelise disappear into the horizon, just in case Jareth tried to call her back. Although she couldn’t fathom why he would try to summon his previous bride back, Sarah was still wary of risking it. By the time she felt confident enough to confront him, the sun was just beginning to set. 

The golden glow of the setting sun lit her way through the castle, bathing everything in warm, cheery tones. On any other day—and in any other situation—Sarah would have found everything incredibly pretty. Now, however, her thoughts were preoccupied with fury, largely directed at Jareth, and her hands. Even though she bandaged them as well as she could while Annelise made her escape, Sarah was certain they would be ruined for a very long time. The rope she fell down tore them to bits, and what skin wasn’t terribly rope burned was bruised. 

When she found him, he was holed up in an impressive library, poring over a thick tome. Sarah barely spared it a glance before she began.

“I found the first princess,” she said, her voice heavy with accusation. “And I was told the second is also dead.” Sarah waited for a response, half hoping that he would at least try to refute her. She wanted for him to be ignorant and innocent of their imprisonment. She  _ needed _ for him to be. But for several seconds, he remained silent. 

“There were three, were there not?” He said it calmly and turned so that he could see her better. He was looking more human than she’d ever seen him before—his face still looked stretched out, and he was still covered in feathers, but those feathers were smaller and looked to be almost receding into his skin. It struck Sarah as terrible and morbidly funny that just he looked more human than ever, she learned about his monstrous actions. 

“Two of them died,” she spat out at him, walking away from him and toward a plush chair. “Because you locked them up and left them to rot. I assure you,” she added with a sneer, “they did. And  _ I _ had the pleasure of discovering my predecessors.” Sarah sat down in the chair and primly crossed her legs, like she imagined Annelise might have before her imprisonment. 

Jareth had the grace to look shamed for a moment as he tracked her movement through the room. It passed quickly, however, and Sarah narrowed her eyes at him. 

“I admit that I had quite forgotten about them. They displeased me, and thus, they were unimportant.”

Sarah inhaled sharply and felt rage uncoil within her. 

“And explain to me,” she said, deceptively calm, “what, exactly, you did to those women.” She no longer had any delusions about his innocence or involvement, no matter how much she wanted to believe his hands—he had hands now, mostly—were clean. 

“Nothing,” he said, and Sarah had to bite back her indignant words. “As I said, Sarah, they displeased me. I had them placed in the oubliettes; that is where things are put when you wish to forget about them, after all. I believe I remember sending them victuals, but true to the oubliette’s nature, I quite forgot about them. Things that do not interest me tend to slip my mind.”

Sarah stood because sitting somehow felt like defeat. She felt hollowed out—empty, glacial—and didn’t even register the flare of pain as her tattered palm struck his cheek. 

“Annelise and the princesses were not  _ things _ ,” she said, and promptly started crying. Whether it was from the pain in her hand, overwhelming fury, or because she had never— _ never— _ hit anything out of anger before, she could not tell. She scrubbed the tears off her face with the back of her bandaged hands, not proud of her actions and less proud of the way his shock made her feel vindicated, somehow. He was used to treating others abominably, if the wives and goblins were anything to go by; he was less used to retaliation. Perhaps less used to anger as well, if his reaction was anything to go by. 

Instead of snapping her up in his now too-small jaws, as her belated fear told her he might do, he sat down heavily on the carpet--he stood when she entered the room, a mockery of a proper gentleman responding to a proper lady. Some small, distant part of her noted that he might be able to use chairs and tables after his next molt. Sarah held both of her hands behind her back, as if she could take back her action by doing so.

“You struck me,” Jareth said, dazed. “And now, you cry for it.”

“Yes,” Sarah agreed, wanting to be anywhere but where she was. “I did. I was… angry. I thought that if you treated them in that manner, that perhaps I might be next. And I cannot allow that to happen--not without a fight.” She wiped the last tear from her face and watched as Jareth focused on her hand. 

“You are injured,” he noted, as if all he was capable of doing was making small observations. Sarah almost laughed out of hysteria, not because she actually found humor in the situation. Her ignorance and his strange charm let them be something close to friends, at least for a day or two, but ever since she found herself in the oubliette with a princess’s remains she knew that would have to change. Even now-- _ especially _ now--standing in the library with Jareth, she could feel their relationship shifting. She didn’t know what to say to his statement; yes, she was injured, but she didn’t feel that was the most pressing matter. Instead, she wanted to talk about the dead women and the half starved baroness, and how he could ever do something as callous as  _ forget _ about them. 

“Yes,” Sarah answered, deciding that she would try to lead him back to what she wanted to discuss. “When I fell into the oubliette, I tried to grab a rope hanging from the top. If I had not, my legs would likely be broken.” She didn’t try to hide her hands anymore, now that they had been discovered by him. 

He reached out with a feathered hand and clawed fingers and unwound the bandage from her left hand. Sarah let him; there were things she was willing to fight, and this was not one of them. Let him worry over her wounds--perhaps it would spark some sense of shame in him. 

“The fact that you got hurt…” he started, but did not finish his sentence. Sarah waited patiently as he worked through what he really wanted to say. 

“I apologize,” he finally said, “for what happened to you today. It was never my intention to see you injured, and I am distressed that you saw what you did. It was never my intention for you to worry after your own safety.”

Sarah felt words forming on her lips--that it didn’t matter what his intentions were, things happened anyway, that he must not be too sorry because it wasn’t a real apology, that he was apologizing for the wrong things--and bit them back. She got the feeling that any sort of apology from him was nothing short of monumental, and while she wanted to bring up all of her concerns, she didn’t want to ruin the moment. But that didn’t mean that she knew what to say instead, so Sarah nodded her head and sat down on her knees across from him. They were almost eye level. 

He still held her hands in his and traced over her wounds with the pad of his thumb. Where his touch lingered, heat blossomed; at first, it was pleasantly warm, but then it burned. The heat raced all the way up her elbows and stopped at her shoulders, but burned strongest in her palms. Sarah tried to jerk her hands away, but he only strengthened his grip.

“You’re hurting!” Sarah protested, still trying to wrestle herself from his grip.

“I am  _ healing _ ,” he corrected. “Calm yourself.” He held her gaze long enough for her to grudgingly comply, and then focused on her hands again. Sarah watched too; what had once been raw and oozing was now tender and pink.

“It burns,” she complained, no longer trying to pull her hands away. It would have been nice--and wholly unexpected--if he’d asked permission first, but Sarah thought that perhaps he thought he was trying to be nice. And, in a way, he was; he didn’t  _ need _ to bother with her hands at all. She hadn’t asked him to. She didn’t even know that he was capable of such magic.

Sarah let loose a slow sigh and rolled her shoulders as soon as the heat dissipated. She still ached, to be sure, and where she felt the burning she now felt an unpleasant tingling. But the skin on her hands had knitted itself back together, and all but the worst of the bruising had faded completely. That much she thanked him for, even if her apology was whispered. She still wished he would have asked permission, first. Suddenly feeling as if her hands caught fire hadn’t been pleasant. Instead of looking at him, she stared down at her knees, not really seeing them. 

“Something is still wrong,” he observed, placing a hand on her left shoulder. “You will tell me.”

Sarah meant for all of their interactions to be good. She meant to at least try to be friends with the Lindworm, knowing the consequences if she failed. If nobody went looking for the daughters of noble families, a miller’s daughter could be ignored even easier. 

But Sarah did not want to lose herself, either. She would not abandon Sarah to become the bride she never wanted to be in the first place, so Jareth’s latest demand loosened her tongue too much. Swallowing her emotions was never something she was particularly talented at. 

“You cannot just order me like that,” she protested, pulling away from his touch. Sarah turned in time to catch his irritated expression.

“Let me clarify: you  _ will not _ order me like that. We are meant to be married; a marriage is a partnership,” she explained. “You can ask that I do something, and I  _ might _ comply, just as I can ask and you can decide whether or not you are feeling agreeable.” Sarah held his gaze, daring him to look away or argue. Jareth did not look pleased by her words, but he didn’t try to contradict her. 

“In this spirit of this partnership, I will tell you what is wrong--but  _ not _ because you told me to.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped, and she ignored it. Her skirts were suddenly interesting again, and Sarah spent a few seconds smoothing wrinkles from them as she chose her words. TO her side, she could feel him grow restless.

“I understand that you are used to doing as you please,” she started, still looking down at her hands. “But I am not your subject, and if I am going to be your wife, I must be your equal. This means that you tell me things, rather than…” She paused, and then held out one of her newly restored hands to him. “Rather than just grabbing me and, for example, surprising me with magic. I am not accustomed to it, and did not know what to expect.”

If she searched his face hard enough, Sarah thought that she might have been able to find some sign of him being contrite. For the most part, however, he remained mostly impassive. 

“If you had asked--if you had warned me at all--I would not have protested,” she said, reaching out to hold one of his hands. “But I was surprised and… A little scared, I will admit. I did not know what was happening, or if I was going to end up like the princesses. It seemed to me that you had a certain disregard for their lives, and that disregard might extend to mine.”

Sarah thought that was probably the bravest and most foolhardy thing she had ever said, and she had to resist the urge to hold her breath. His eyes bored into hers, and Sarah found herself focusing mainly on not blinking. For a moment, Sarah wondered all over again if she had dug her own grave with her words. 

And then he reached out and smoothed away the trails her tears left on her cheeks, tracing her jawline and tilting her face up to his. His fingertips were gentle but hard and almost calloused, and his still too-talonlike nails scratched at her skin the slightest bit. 

“I said before that it was not my intention to have you worry about your safety here. I meant that, and I still do. I promise that I will not put you in an oubliette, or forget about you, or otherwise harm you in any way. And,” he added, visibly forcing himself to keep a grimace off his face, “I will try very hard to remember that we are  _ partners _ and that one does not give a partner a command.”

Sarah was not sure if simply  _ trying _ really hard would be enough to overcome a lifetime of doing as he pleased. 

_ But what other choice do I have? _ she asked herself, shoulders sagging.  _ None _ , she answered herself. She would have to believe him and trust that he would do as he said. 

“I keep my promises,” he growled, tightening his grip on her face. His sharpened nails pricked her chin uncomfortably, and Sarah was forced to look into his eyes again. “Unlike my feckless family, I keep my word.”

“Right,” Sarah said, her mouth dry. “I believe you. I do. Now, please release my face.” 

His reaction was almost immediate; as soon as he realized he still held her in his grip, he dropped his hold. She rewarded him with a small smile that he did not try to return, but he studied the transient marks on her face. Nothing would bruise, she knew, and while it had been uncomfortable--he tilted her face up so that her neck bent at a disagreeable angle--it hadn’t actually hurt. And seeing him respond so quickly to her discomfort gave her hope, too.

“You know,” she said after a swollen moment of silence, “back at home--at the mill--I would be with my family right now, probably beside the fire.” She only jumped a little when a fire crackled to life in the grate behind them, chalking it up to magic and Jareth’s whims. “Toby would probably be asleep, and we’d tell stories to each other. If it there was enough light, I might read to my father and stepmother. It’s very different here.” Sarah nodded to the towering bookcases and the rich furniture in the room. “Different, but I do not think that is… bad, necessarily.”

And she was surprised to hear the truth on her lips. Although she would have much preferred not having her flippant marriage proposal be taken seriously, and she dreaded the actual wedding, sitting beside him wasn’t bad. Perhaps if they’d met earlier when she was still at the mill and perhaps if he wasn’t in the habit of terrorizing people who crossed him, they might have even been friends.

Sarah studied him. The goblin witch was right--she might not be able to make him a  _ good _ man, but as long as she kept her wits about her, Sarah thought that it might not be too bad. She hadn’t ended up in an oubliette yet, and he promised he’d never do that again; she counted that as a win. And now that he looked far more human than he did Lindworm, she was more comfortable around him than ever. Sure, he still had feathers, but he had more recognizable skin, and his face seemed to be made up of sharp planes, but she could tell his eyes were blue now. He even had proper hair, even if it was too long and stuck up all at odd angles from his scalp.

“What kind of stories?” he asked eventually.

Sarah hummed in thought and considered his question.

“When they’re not from books or old fairy tales, we usually talk about how our day has been,” she said, remembering past conversations. “Sometimes there isn’t much to discuss, but it is nice anyway. It keeps--kept--us close.” She stared into the fire and tried to pretend it was the one at home, but the clean stone at the back and intricately carved marble mantle made it impossible. 

“My father might talk about how the wheat is growing and how much he thinks people might bring to the mill. My stepmother might talk about what is happening in town or read a letter if her family sent one.” Her stepmother’s family wrote infrequently, so any time they did was treated as a major occasion. The letters were carefully kept in her stepmother’s chest of drawers, hidden away and preserved between thin sheets of clean cheesecloth. Sarah knew that her stepmother felt cut off from the rest of her family. who lived very far away and had been aghast when their daughter married a simple miller; she couldn’t help but to suddenly understand her stepmother’s plight.

Jareth knew enough to not ask Sarah about her day, as she was accustomed to her family doing. Finding the brides he had quite forgotten about and falling into an oubliette were activities he was eager for her to forget or ignore; it would not benefit him in any way to bring them up again, not after she finally seemed to have blunted her anger. 

But he was just as reluctant to inform her that he’d sent for both of their families and they would be arriving shortly. That, he decided, would be saved as a special surprise which he hoped she would reward him for. He thought, belatedly, that a young woman like herself might have friends--might have even had a lover back in her old home. Jareth had to quash a surge of jealousy; if she had a lover, that would not be allowed to continue. She was going to be  _ his _ wife in just a few more hours. Still, he thought it best to investigate.

“Did you have any friends where you used to live?” 

Sarah looked up at him, surprised; she hadn’t suspected that he might be interested in her life in the village, but she conceded that there was a lot about the lindworm-turned-mostly-human that she didn’t know. His favorite color, for example. Or whether or not he’d actually eaten a human before. Sarah decided she’d rather not know the answer to the second question.

“A few,” Sarah answered. “I was close with one girl in particular; her name is Maya, and her parents run the only inn in the village. She would give me books to read. I used to have other friends, but we grew apart.”

“How so?” he asked, trying not to sound relieved. It would not do for his queen to have any lingering romantic interest in anybody else. While he was not foolish enough to believe that she actually  _ loved  _ him, he was certain that he could forge a bond of friendship between them. Love, from what he’d been told, could take time. 

“We grew older and became interested in different things,” Sarah replied. “It happens, of course; it doesn’t really mean anything. While I was getting tutored, some of my old friends were peeling apples to discover the initials of their future husbands. After a while, we did not have much in common.” She shrugged and leaned closer to the fire. Out of her old friends, a few of them were already married. Some had already moved out of the village, and Sarah lost contact with most of those who did. Maya, she realized, was probably the only friend she retained from childhood.

“Peeling apples? That is a strange magic.” Jareth, despite his tutoring and extensive studying, had never heard of such a thing. 

“It isn’t really a magic,” Sarah laughed. “At least, I do not think so. Just chance and hope that when you threw the apple peels over your shoulder, they would form letters. I did it once,” she confessed, “and only got a heap of apple peels. No letters for me, which I suppose was just as well.”

_ Yes, just as well _ , Jareth agreed with a firm nod. Had Sarah divined the name of a husband who was not him, he would have been very cross. It would have taken a long time to hunt the man down and kill him if his armies had only initials to go off of. Sarah would only be married once. To him. Jareth had already decided that despite her surliness and tendency to ignore his demands, he quite liked her.

Sarah stifled a yawn with her healed hands, oblivious to the nature of Jareth’s thoughts. Without righteous anger to fuel her, the day was catching up and stealing away what energy she had left. There were other things she wanted to say and ask, but she couldn’t quite keep her eyes open.

“Sleep,” Jareth ordered. “Everything is prepared for tomorrow.”

_ The wedding _ , Sarah thought.  _ But before that… _

“Shed your feathers,” she mumbled back, curling into the warmth of the fire. As she fell asleep, she thought she could feel the brush of a feather against her cheek.

* * *

Sarah woke to a dead fireplace, a thick blanket thrown over her head, and a feathers in her hair. The conversation she had last night--about dead princesses and promises and apple peels--ran through her head. She doubted, for a moment, that it happened at all. But her magically healed hands and the feathers she had to pluck out of her hair were proof enough that she hadn’t dreamed it all up. She wondered if Jareth covered her in the blanket, or if a goblin found her sometime in the night; she wasn’t sure which one was more likely.

Her neck was sore from sleeping on the rug in front of the fire. Even if it was thick and soft, it was still over stone and therefore not as comfortable as her bed might have been. She wondered if the pain would go away by itself or if she could--or should--ask Jareth for help.

As she was in the middle of her ponderings, the library doors crashed open, and the draft blew the remaining feathers away.

“Queen,” barked Trinket, sounding more militant than Sarah had ever heard her before. “You must come to get prepared for the wedding!”

Several thoughts raced through Sarah’s head at once. The one she settled on and voiced was “are my parents here?” It would be nice to see them after what felt like years but had only been days, and she hoped she could speak to them before all of the festivities began. Not everything could be put in a letter, and more than anything, Sarah wanted to see Toby. 

Trinket nodded vigorously and motioned for Sarah to move. “Trinket mustn’t enter King’s private library, so you must come out yourself,” she sniffed. Sarah smiled; that was one question answered, at least. Jareth had been the one to cover her after he left.

The little goblin dragged her through halls and back into Sarah’s rooms, where a team--probably the same team as the day before--was waiting. Instantly, Sarah regretted her decision to leave the library. It was safe, and warm, and most importantly, not filled to bursting with shimmering fabric and overly scented flowers.

Before she could even begin to protest, Sarah was dunked into her sunken tub and scrubbed almost raw while another goblin worked scented oils through her hair. Almost as soon as she was getting used to the heat of the water, she was dragged out and dried off, her hair detangled and wrapped in a spare towel.

“Am I terribly late?” Sarah asked, trying not to sneeze as she breathed in the shimmering powder she was being dusted with. “I was never told what time this would all start.”

“Yes,” grunted Trinket as she dragged the dress stand into view. “Wedding in an hour.” 

Until now, her wedding gown had been hidden behind the privacy screen--and for good reason, Sarah thought. She balked at the idea of wearing it, and briefly wondered if she could convince Jareth to wait a day before being married so she could request more alterations. But her three days were hard enough won, and she hadn’t given any input into the alterations being proposed. She vaguely remembered nodding yes or shaking her head no to a few things, but couldn’t remember what they were no matter how hard she tried.

“King had some input,” Trinket said proudly. “It’s very romantic.”

Sarah disagreed. It was a nightmare of layers and layers of white fabric, all somehow glittering--most likely with magic--that looked like it would be impossible to move in. She hoped there wouldn’t be dancing; she dreaded trying to dance in a skirt almost as wide as she was tall. It was embroidered heavily with thread that looked like it was spun from diamonds, and would most likely require an elaborate updo as well.

“Oh,” was all she could manage in response to Trinket.

Perhaps, in some twisted way, it was meant to be a kindness. Nobody would be able to look at it and think of the brides before her, so at least this dress was uniquely hers. Sarah fervently hoped that was the intention and that it wasn’t meant cruelly.

It took almost half of the hour allotted to her to get laced into the dress. The rest was spent on her hair, which was curled and puffed into oblivion. A delicate silver hairpiece was woven into the mess, which Sarah dreaded trying to brush out later. At least she wasn’t covered with feathers anymore, but she was having a difficult time deciding which was the worse fate.

Sarah caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she was ushered out of the room, and didn’t necessarily like what she saw. She cut a stunning figure to those who didn’t know her, of course, dressed up like some sort of faerie queen ripped out of a storybook, but to herself she looked young and scared.

_ Perhaps because I am--scared, at least,  _ she thought to herself, trying not to worry her painted lip. A bouquet of ivy and asters was shoved into her hands, stems wrapped in silk and stuck together with what looked suspiciously like amethyst pins. Sarah stood in front of the massive doors leading to the main hall where she supposed her wedding would take place and tried to wipe the worry off her face. Her parents couldn’t see her scared, not after the days of silence broken only by a single letter. And, she supposed, she should make a good impression on the king and queen, her new in-laws. 

That thought only made her feel worse.

Music floated out to her from within the halls, and before the great doors opened, Jareth appeared beside her. He was well groomed and more strikingly human than she had ever seen him before. The hard lines on his face were softened just a little bit, and while his nails were still sharp and he still seemed too tall, most of the feathers that she could see were peppered in where his hair was. 

But he was a far cry from the owl-like wyrm she first met, and that, she felt, was mostly thanks the the advice the witch gave her. 

“Wife,” he said, pulling her arm to rest on his.

“Not yet,” she replied automatically. He grinned at her, a half-smile that revealed his teeth were still pointed. Sarah wondered if that would go away--if he would ever be fully blunted. She doubted it.

The doors opened to reveal an almost-full hall, but it was mostly full  of goblins trying to be on their best behavior. No doubt under threat of some horrible sort of corporal punishment, Sarah knew. She caught sight of Ludo and Didymus and offered them both a small wave and a smile. The fox knight bowed low and swept his hat almost against the floor; Ludo simply waved back, nearly knocking over the goblin seated beside him. 

Sarah knew the exact moment she and Jareth approached the bench which held his family. The miller and his wife were on the right side of the hall, and Sarah offered a small smile to her sobbing stepmother. Sarah doubted very much that the tears were from joy. Her father sat stony faced beside his wife, refusing to look at his daughter and her very soon-to-be husband.

But Jareth was not paying attention to her parents. Instead, he was conspicuously ignoring his own, standing with perfect posture and glaring daggers at the wizened priest in front of them. Sarah only had a moment to wonder where--or who--found him, and another moment to catch a glimpse of the king, queen, and princess, all of whom were openly staring before Jareth quickened his pace, ignoring the music. Sarah felt the many hems of her dress drag along the ground as she tried to keep up, her arm still locked in his.

Bride and groom arrived at the altar far too quickly, and Jareth motioned for the music to be cut off. It ended with the screech of a violin, which Sarah hoped was not a portent of the rest of her marriage.

“The vows,” Jareth ordered while Sarah tried to turn and look at her family. “Now.”

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

None of the books Sarah read, nor any of the starry-eyed stories told to her of true love were able to prepare her for her own wedding. Perhaps it was because while she was perfectly amiable toward her own groom, she did not feel that she was madly in love with him. Or maybe it was because she could still see feathers sticking out from his wild blonde hair and creeping down the back of his neck. Her stepmother sobbing in the background while the priest read his lines certainly did not help. So, Sarah stood in her elaborate gown and listened to the vows she would agree to while ignoring the stares from the king and queen boring holes into her back. His sister was holding the hand of another woman, eyes misty; she remained focused on the officiant and the words he spoke.

And then all attention was focused on her, and Sarah discovered that she quite forgot how to speak. Everything--even the goblins--was silent. Jareth stared at her, hard, and Sarah realized that it was her turn to affirm the vows.

_Say your right words_ , Sarah thought to herself. _Say them and hope he didn’t add anything nefarious to the vows_.

Sarah opened her mouth, and the voice that came from it barely felt like her own.

“I do.”

A wicked grin flashed across his face as he seized her left hand and slipped a golden band on it. The ring glittered brilliantly for a moment before seeming to sink into her skin. It didn’t hurt, but Sarah wondered why he would magick a ring so that it would be almost invisible beside her skin.

“You cannot take it off,” he said gleefully. “You can never leave me.”

_Oh_ , Sarah thought, a little irritated that she hadn’t realized the implication sooner. His words would have no doubt made even her father cry, but the befeathered king said them so softly that even Sarah, standing right beside him, had to strain to hear.

But she didn’t have much time to dwell on rings or promises or even what was to come next because it was all just so _fast_ and his mouth was on hers before she could even protest. His teeth were still a little sharp, and when she put her hands on his shoulders, she could feel even through his thick coat that feathers were there, too.

The priest said something about their vows making them _mostly_ married, and some piece of vital information clamored for attention in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t focus enough to think too hard on it. Goblins cheered in the background, and Sarah thought that maybe she heard the princesses behind her cheer, too, but she couldn’t be sure.

And then, all at once, there was a loud snap and the smell of burned sugar and such sudden silence that Sarah opened her eyes, only just then aware that she had closed them. She pulled away from Jareth to survey her surroundings, and her stomach did an unpleasant flutter when she realized she was in his bedroom. Many of the feathers were cleaned up, and the windows were barred shut, but it was unmistakably his.

“What are we doing here?” asked Sarah, her voice weak. “My parents are below. I would like to speak with them.”

“And you may,” he responded, leisurely shucking off his overcoat. “When you are well and truly my wife.” Jareth took a step forward, and Sarah took half a step back.

“But we are married,” she protested. “We said our vows.”

“We said our vows, yes,” he agreed. “But they have not been consummated. Ergo, we are not yet fully married.”

Part of Sarah was relieved. If they were not yet completely married--just mostly married--then there was still time for the final shed and therefore still time to make him completely human… at least in appearance. But she did not like the almost malignant look in his eyes or the way his hands were skimming over her shoulders, as if she was a sweet he would like very much to unwrap. But it wasn’t something she was necessarily… _adverse_ to

Sarah smiled a wicked grain of her own and slid her frothy sleeves from her shoulders. If she was going to do this, it would be on her own terms.

“Shed your feathers, and I will shed my shift.”

For a moment, he was almost completely still. If it wasn’t for the shallow rise and fall of his chest or the subtle flaring of his nostrils, Sarah might have thought him a statue.

“Well?” she prompted, and he flew into motion. This time, Sarah made himself watch the transformation. There seemed to her to be very little left to shed, but it took up most of his attention anyway. While he was distracted, she methodically plucked at the stays holding her gown up.

Sarah watched as his pupils became more rounded and the last few feathers fell away. As with the other time he shed part of his lindworm guise, he looked a bit dazed.

“You,” he breathed out, “shed your shift.”

“I keep my word,” Sarah said, letting her gown drop to the floor.

* * *

Sarah felt sweaty and sore in places she previously had only a theoretical understanding of only an hour ago. The warm water of the sunken back the found herself in with Jareth only did so much to soothe her muscles, and she was certain that when they finally returned to their guests, they would all know _exactly_ what the newlyweds had been up to. The thought reddened her cheeks.

He stood, oblivious to her embarrassment, and approached the tall mirror hanging on the far wall. Jareth drank in his reflection like a man parched; Sarah wondered if he stared at her with the same reverence.

Ignoring her protesting muscles, Sarah stood and reached for something to dry herself with, avoiding her own reflection. Wrapped in a soft expanse of fabric, Sarah also found a brush and started trying to work through the snarls in her hair.

“I think,” he said, staring at his own face in the mirror, “that as a wedding present to myself, I might kill my family. What say you, wife? I am still considering it.”

Sarah almost dropped her hairbrush in surprise.

“As a king of a neighboring country, would that not start a war?” she asked, selecting her words carefully. “Perhaps a better wedding present would be a peaceful reign.”

But Jareth did not seem convinced, and instead of acknowledging her suggestion, decided to study how holding his head at different angles altered his appearance. Sarah scowled and ran the brush through her hair one last time.

“They already think you a murderer,” she pointed out. “Do not give them further proof.”

He ignored her, scowling at his own reflection though Sarah was certain the expression was meant for her. Any continuation of that dialogue would likely have them throwing things at each other within minutes, Sarah realized. Better to just look for something to wear.

But the only thing available was her intricate white gown, so Sarah struggled her way back into it.

“However, if revenge is your desire,” she started, thinking particularly uncharitable thoughts herself--towards him, towards his family, towards the thrice-damned dress--”then perhaps the best way to execute it would be to prove to them at every turn that you are better. Not at war,” she hastened to add. “But better at living. Be better at ruling.”

“And pleasing my queen,” he said, turning to face her for the first time since he discovered the mirror. Sarah stared down at her feet, feeling the heat of her blush spread across her face and hating it.

“I’d like to go back to my parents and brother, now,” she said. “And you may gloat to your family about whatever you like.” Without another word, still feeling her embarrassment from his last remark, Sarah turned and left his chambers.

It took Sarah a few minutes to find her way back to the room in which the celebratory banquet was being held. She was only a little surprised to see the king making conversation with her father, who was sweating profusely. Her stepmother busied herself with Toby, stolidly ignoring the goblins, while the queen listened politely to Ludo wax poetic about igneous rocks. But as soon as the others realized Sarah had returned, all attention focused on her.

Sarah heard her stepmother gasp and Didymus proclaim “my lady” but it was her father who dropped to his knees and Jareth’s sister who wrapped the princess beside her in a fierce hug.

“Hello, everyone,” said Sarah, nonplussed. “I hope I did not keep you waiting overlong.”

“My girl,” said the king, who moved toward her and then seemed to think better of it. “We are all terribly glad to see you well and wed.”

Sarah nodded her head, politely ignoring the unspoken “and unbrutalized”; she was glad for that as well, if unsurprised. Toby gurgled something from her stepmother’s arms, focused on a small goblin creeping closer.

The image gave Sarah pause; if there was going to be any real, lasting peace between humans and goblins, the duty most likely rested with her and those too young to know anything different, like Toby.

“Well,” she said, pushing the thought away for the moment, “I’m feeling a bit peckish. Is anyone else?” And because the groom was nowhere to be found, Sarah helped herself to a slice of cake. The goblins predictably followed suit with only Hoggle requiring any coaxing, as he seemed determined not to make as merry as the rest.

Eventually, all of the humans entered the fray as well, and Sarah’s stepmother seemed to be warming to the fact that her stepdaughter was a queen—even if said stepdaughter was queen of the Goblin Kingdom. The goblins showed her more deference than they might show another human from her village. She sat as primly as she would if she were on the throne herself; no doubt, Sarah thought, to prove to Sarah’s new in-laws that they were all equals. If they were anything like Jareth, Sarah’s stepmother had a long road ahead of her.

Tinsel took it upon herself to protect Sarah—or, more likely, the gown Sarah wore—from the pieces of cake and slices of fruit that intermittently flew through the air. Querel took it upon himself to amuse Toby, mostly by attempting to juggle pieces of cake. Sarah was in the middle of watching it all transpire when she felt a hesitant tap on her shoulder.

“I have no doubt that my mother and father will approach you in turn,” the blonde princess said, clearly nervous. “But I would like to thank you for marrying the Lin—my brother. I must remember that he is my brother,” she said, as an aside to herself. “Without you marrying him, I would have been unable to marry my own love.” She gestured towards the other woman sitting with Jareth’s parents. “We have waited so long, you see.” The princess grabbed Sarah’s hands in her own, holding them tightly. “I owe you a debt. If you ever find yourself in need of anything, please call upon me first.”

“Thank you,” said Sarah, patting her new sister’s hands. “I wish you many felicitations in your own upcoming marriage.” She was about to say that if the offer of help was meant in reference to Jareth, it was unnecessary. Her words were interrupted by the entrance of the man himself, looking much more put together than Sarah felt. He still wore his glittering wedding clothes, but Sarah did not think that was the reason the entire room fell silent a second time.

All traces of feathers and too-sharp features had been smoothed away by his final shed, leaving him looking, at least, like a normal human man. He looked extremely displeased to see his sister speaking with his bride, and even less happy to see his parents. Jareth’s lips curled, and Sarah glowered at him; he wasn’t even trying to mask his hatred.

“I see you are all still imposing on my _generous_ hospitality,” he sneered, inclining his head toward his parents. “You will not be for long; I suggest you start saying your goodbyes.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and turned back to his sister.

“I will write you,” she said. “Please excuse me; I would like to speak with my parents.”

Sarah’s father had collected himself since his near breakdown during the ceremony. The color returned to his face and he only flinched a little when the occasional goblin got too close. Sarah counted that as a victory, if a small one.

“Will we see you again?” he asked, voice low and resigned. “Or is my daughter going to spend the rest of her days with goblins?”

“Father!” Sarah chided, trying to keep a smile from her lips. “You can visit at any time, of course. He won’t have a say in the matter, I assure you. If I want to see my family, I will. He isn’t so unmanageable,” she said, nodding at her new husband. “Unconventional, perhaps, but is that so bad?”

Her father did not have an answer, as he was rather happy in his very conventional marriage. But his daughter seemed confident enough, and that was all that he truly needed. She explained how her time in the Goblin Kingdom went to her parents, tactfully leaving out the oubliettes, and expanded upon how, exactly, she managed to attract the attention of the Goblin King himself. The ruby ring still sat on her finger.

Jareth ignored everybody except Sarah and a few goblins, but Sarah thought that was probably to be expected. After a while he grew restless and ordered everybody to leave; Sarah tried to soften the blow by inviting them all back. She doubted that most would take her up on her offer.

Sarah watched her family—both new and old—depart, her disinterested husband at her side. She knew that all would be well… At least, as well as the goblins would let it be.  

 


End file.
